


The Call

by tamber



Series: Dragonfire [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Magic, Aviator!John, Aviator!Sherlock, Baby Dragon, Character Death, Dragon Riders, Dragons, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Magic, Magical Bond, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamber/pseuds/tamber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1804 and Army Captain John Watson is Called by the British Aerial Corps to join the fight against Napoleon Bonaparte from the skies. His future is now intrinsically bound to that of Hermes, a fighting dragon.</p><p>Once there, John meets the enigmatic Aviator, Captain Sherlock Holmes. With Britain's chances of victory becoming slimmer by the day, their unlikely partnership will be tested in the bloody skies over the Channel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captain John Watson, Aviator

_Lake Abukir, Egypt – 21st March 1801, 3:25am_

The darkness of the Egyptian night pressed in around the members of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; there was no telling how close or far away the enemy were. At around 3am the call to arms had sounded and the various soldiers in the British expeditionary corps had formed a line near the ruins of Nicopolis.

Captain John Watson gripped the hilt of his sword, although he did not draw it, whilst squinting out over the lake in the hopes of seeing something. Anything. He could tell that the men surrounding him were nervous. Edgy. John had proudly fought alongside many of them for the past five years and knew them to be brave and unwavering in battle and yet currently they were quivering in their boots. And who could blame them?

He had yet to meet a sane man who wasn’t scared out of his wits at the prospect of facing a dragon. The deadly Fleur-de-Nuit which was capable of seeing in the dark, or the French Flamme-de-Noir which belched out gouts of roiling flame; John had seen a few in his time and fervently hoped that the British Aerial Corps would keep them at bay. Otherwise they were all going to die.

They were coming to the end of the bitter, bloody campaign to force Napoleon Bonaparte out of Egypt; this would just be one more battle in a series of savage skirmishes fought over the land. John hadn’t stepped foot in England for two years, serving first in Spain and now Egypt, and found himself longing for the green fields of his homeland. He didn’t want to die out here in the desert sands, far from the people he loved. But John was also a soldier and so he straightened his spine, removed his hand from his sword and tried to look as relaxed as possible. The men surrounding him, seeing his relaxed posture, made at least some attempt to steel their nerves – although John noticed they didn’t take their eyes off the skies. It was an old saying in the Army – _keep one eye on the sky._

“Attention!”

The sharp cry rang out through the ranks, running from Major-General Sir John Moore’s position on the right flank, which had set up position upon the ruins of Nicopolis. John and his Regiment were positioned just behind the 28th North Gloucestershire Regiment of Foot, on the left flank, behind them lay two further infantry brigades and the cavalry. In the centre of the line was the Foot Guards brigade, and John reasoned that they would face the brunt of the assault. They had been told that French forces numbered around 20,000 whereas they were only 14,000 – although this didn’t bother John. He had been outnumbered too many times to allow it to frighten him anymore.

“Ready Muskets!”

John heard the men around him ready their weapons and the slither of steel as hundreds of swords left their scabbards simultaneously, urging him to draw his own weapon. As a Captain, John was armed with a pistol instead of the standard Brown Bess musket, although he preferred fighting with his sword; he was left handed and this tended to confuse his opponents for the vital seconds he needed. He felt a shiver of anticipation roll down his spine, blinking rapidly as adrenaline flooded his system. In front of him he could hear the faint sound of the French approach – mercifully absent was the tell-tale ‘whoosh’ of dragon wing beats.

For a few moments there was nothing but the menacing sounds of the French approach and the heavy breathing of the men around him and John pulled his pistol and cocked it, staring at the back of the head of the man in front of him, occasionally flicking his eyes up to look at the sky. Then he heard the cry go up to fire and took it up himself, ordering the men under his command to discharge their weapons, the noise deafening as hundreds of muskets were fired in the space of a few seconds. By now the enemy were within 30 paces of the front ranks and over the continuous rounds of musket fire John could hear the shouts of their commanders.

Within a few seconds of giving the order to fire the enemy had engaged with the 28th ahead of John’s position and he found himself pushed forwards inevitably as the line needed to be reinforced. As John stepped forward to take his place at the front of the line he became aware of the stifling heat pressing in around him, sapping his energy and causing sweat to build on his face and back. He discharged his pistol almost instantly before holstering it and barking out an order to the men under his command, parrying a thrust from an enemy musket as he did so.

“Fix bayonets!”

His voice was hoarse from shouting and he wondered how anyone could possibly hear his order over the sounds of battle – the screams of the wounded and dying, the conflicting orders from other commanders, the clamour of gunshots and the clatter of steel against steel. Somehow his order must have gotten through because the men on either side of him swiftly fixed the metal blades onto their muskets – just in time to meet an enemy charge.

John was barely distinguishable from NCO’s, the only difference being the arrangement of laces on his cuff. He was actually grateful for this, for commanders were usually targeted by the enemy in the hopes of sowing disarray within the ranks. John had lost track of the number of men he had killed during his time in the Army and had never hesitated to land a fatal blow – it was, after all, them or him and John wanted to live. He scored a hit on the shoulder of one Frenchman who had attempted to break through the line between John and the man to his left and parried the thrust of another, twisting the blade and sending it spinning out of his opponent’s hands. He was just about to land the final blow when he heard the sound of conflict – close by. And behind him.

For a few panicked moments the line around John was in disarray – how had the enemy gotten behind them? The line must have broken elsewhere and allowed the enemy to form a pincer movement on John’s already struggling men and for a moment it seemed they would buckle.

"Front rank stay as you are, rear rank about turn!"

John gave the order through gritted teeth, kicking one enemy soldier solidly in the chest to send him sprawling backwards where he was finished off by a well-aimed bayonet thrust. John then turned about and formed a second line behind the one in front, his order being taken up by men either side of him. The ground was slick with blood at this point and John nearly slipped over as he valiantly traded blows with a French commander twice his size, only succeeding in pushing him back by head-butting him before striking swiftly at his thigh, cutting to the bone. The regiment was now fighting in an orderly fashion and the sense of panic from before was gone; gradually the French were pushed backwards and finally broke under the constant pressure from John’s men.

It was only after the enemy that had broken through and attacked them from behind were dealt with that John had enough time to risk a glance to the right of their line and noticed that the main brunt of the enemy force was being brought to bear there. John paused briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow, squinting against the glare of the early-morning sun as it rose over the horizon. They had been fighting for hours now and although John had no clue as to exactly how long, he estimated that it was around 7am by the position of the sun. The French forces were clearly shaken and John’s line was holding their position, defending the outpost they had set up. He allowed himself a savage smile before once again stepping up into the front ranks – John strongly believed that an officer should lead from example.

It was then that the bullet hit him in the shoulder.

There was a sudden pressure and John jerked backwards, white-hot pain flaring through his shoulder as he stumbled backwards before going down, hitting the sand with his right hand clasped over his left shoulder, feeling the blood leak through his fingertips. He had seen enough wounds in his time – both as a doctor and a soldier – to know that it was a bad one and quickly found himself losing consciousness. As the world around him went black he looked up to the sky and saw the shadow of a great beast, opening its jaws and sending a pulse of energy directly at the French line. John may have mumbled something about dragons – he wasn’t sure – before he lost the battle for consciousness and let the darkness envelop him.

~~~*~~~

_Suriname, South Africa – 5 th May 1804_

John slumped back against the tree, gulping down water from his canteen and breathing heavily, his left hand still holding his sword which was stained red with blood. It was the end of another battle, this time for control of the Suriname colony in South Africa. John supposed that meant he had now killed on three continents and found himself unable to drum up even the smallest amount of pride at that fact. This year marked eight years of service to his country – a country he hadn’t stepped foot in for five years.

The only reason John was still alive was because he had avoided contracting a fever whilst he was injured; a rarity, he had been assured. As it was he would bear the scar from the bullet that had almost killed him for the rest of his days – an ugly red mess that had gradually faded to a silvery-white. After a period of recovery, where he had sat listless in an Army outpost in Cairo bored out of his mind, John had re-joined his regiment before they had boarded the ship for South Africa. Today had been another victory – hard won though it had been – and John closed his eyes as he allowed himself to relax for the first time in hours. Soon there would be orders to give, men who needed a camp for the night and enemy soldiers to process. But for now John wiped the blade of his sword with a rag he kept for precisely that purpose and tried to rub away the headache that had begun to build behind his eyes.

“Captain Watson! Impressive performance as ever; you know I’ve heard from Colonel Harrington that – good Lord, Watson are you alright? You look as white as a sheet!”

The pressure that had been building for the last few minutes began to peak, gradually becoming worse until John’s vision blurred, seeing nothing but a sheet of white. Lieutenant-Colonel Moore, John’s superior and in his opinion a total arsehole continued to babble on beside him, totally oblivious to John’s condition.

“…happens to the best of us you know. I myself once – years ago, of course – found myself rather overtaken by – Watson! Bloody hell - your arm, look at your arm!”

John blinked past the terrible pain in his head, squinting like a blind man to see his arm, the veins pulsing red and standing out from his skin. Staggering upright he stared in horror as the red light travelled up his arms and towards his chest, the pain in his head peaking as he tore his shirt to stare as the light centred over the place where his heart lay. Eventually the pain became too great and he fell to his knees, clutching his head between his hands, barely aware he was howling in agony until the pain began to fade and he returned to himself with a jolt, blinking up to see a circle of worried soldiers surrounding him.

“Watson! We were so worried when you collapsed like that, but Jenkins here says it’s quite common given the…situation.”

John groaned softly and fought back a wave of nausea, pulling himself to his feet, ignoring the helpful pairs of hands which were offered to him.

“What do you mean my _situation_?”

John looked from face to face, trying to gauge from their reaction what was going on, a feeling of panic overcoming him despite his best efforts. What if he was coming down with some kind of tropical disease? They had been at sea for days, it was entirely possible he could have contracted something in the close quarters of the ship. He frantically scoured his mind for a disease that matched his symptoms – sudden and acute pain followed by – what, pulsing red veins? He wasn’t an expert in tropical diseases and it had been a number of years since he’d practised medicine and yet even he knew there was no infection alive that could cause that.

“Your palm Watson, look at your palm. It’s highly unusual to be Called so late in life though – I’ve certainly never heard anyone over the age of 25 hearing the Call.”

John stared blankly at Moore before staring down at his own left hand reluctantly, as he feared what he would find there. There was a shimmering circle of red on the palm of his hand, casting a faint light as strands of colour wove over his skin. John stared at it in horror, mouth opening and closing without making a sound, his mind finally catching up with what that light meant for him.

“The Call.”

His voice was flat and devoid of inflection, his blue eyes fixed on the palm of his hand which was beginning to shake. The Call was something that everyone in their teens feared – for it meant leaving your home and becoming an Aviator, dedicating the rest of your existence to becoming the trainer and rider of a fighting dragon. John had only ever seen members of the Aerial Corps from afar but had been told that they were hopelessly informal and dismissive of rank and, to a man, rumpled of dress. Becoming an Aviator was the end of any gentleman’s dreams to settle down and have a family – after all, the Corps largest covert was in Scotland called Loch Laggan, far from civilisation. Any Aviator who wished to have a family would have to keep the largest part of his life – his bond with his dragon – separate from his home life; John was unsurprised it was unheard of.

All of this was wandering through his mind as he stared at the mark on his hand; a mark which was usually only seen on children in their teens. Moore was right – it was unheard of for someone as old as John to be Called; dragons usually exclusively Called children of Aviators. It would be a grave insult for John to show his displeasure at the summons – Aviators of the Aerial Corps were officers in their own right and dragons were vital to Britain’s struggle against Bonaparte –and yet John found he could not entirely hide his displeasure. Gone were his plans for a family with Mary – the daughter of Lord Morsten, who had promised John she would wait for him – gone, too, were his plans to settle down to a quiet life of medical research after his service in the Army was done. Aviators were bonded for life to beasts that could reach up to 50 tonnes in weight – even during peacetime Aviators were needed to keep the dragons in check.

“The nearest Corps base isn’t far from here – I imagine you’ll get a ride on dragonback from there. Amazing, utterly amazing – and to think we were here to see it. A man in his thirties hearing the Call – unprecedented!”

John stared numbly at Moore, finding the man’s attitude even more grating now than before. He didn’t seem to care that this meant the end to all of John’s dreams and that he would be entering an isolated community of people who were infamously tight-mouthed and unfriendly to outsiders. He would have to write to Mary – inform her of the situation and hope she let him down gently. It would be selfish of him in the extreme to assume she would still want him now that he had been Called.

“Right. Quite right. Where did you say the nearest base was again?”

~~~*~~~

_Dearest Mary,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I write to you from Aerial Command on this the 19 th of May. Two weeks ago to the day, shortly after our victory in Suriname, I heard the Call. I am aware that this changes the basis of the promise you made me five years ago – indeed, the circumstances are so much changed that it is as if you made that promise to a different person entirely. _

_And so, dearest Mary, it is with great regret that I leave for Loch Laggan without delay. I had hoped to stop by to give you the news in person but I am informed that it is unwise to leave the Call unanswered. I wish you all the fortune in the world and hope that one day you will look on me without regret._

_Forever yours,_

_John Watson_

~~~*~~~

John fought back another wave of nausea as he was shown into an office in Aerial Command, situated in the countryside just south-east of Chatham, close enough to London to permit daily consultation with the Admiralty and the War Office. Aerial Command itself was under the governance of the Admiralty and as John entered the room he heard the sounds of a heated debate occurring through the door to his left.

“It is hardly news to you how badly we need him, given how our affairs stand!”

The voice was low enough to count as a hiss and dark with fury. John found himself thanking God that voice wasn’t directed at him – and he’d been through basic training. He had once thought nothing would be as bad as spending six weeks crawling through mud whilst some arsehole trainer shouted at you – how wrong he had been.

“Most of Bonaparte’s dragons are stationed along the Rhine, and of course he’s been busy in Italy; that and our naval blockades are all that’s keeping him from invasion.”

“Negotiations are still under way. The Treaty of Amiens-”

The second voice was quieter but held no less strength. John felt a little like an eavesdropper but it wasn’t as if he could help hearing. He’d been informed to wait out here until he was called into the Admiral’s office – the office which from which the voices were coming.

“The treaty didn’t even last a year! If you think Bonaparte is going to bow to some diplomat and march his armies home then you’re a fool. If Bonaparte gets matters arranged to his satisfaction on the Continent and frees up a few aerial divisions, we can say hail and farewell to the blockade at Toulon; we simply do not have enough dragons in the Med to protect Nelson’s fleet. He will have to withdraw and then Villeneuve will go straight for the Channel.”

“An aerial bombardment could-”

“There is no hope of that! None, not with the forces we have at present – which is exactly why it is a good thing this man – John Watson – has been Called. Nobleman or not, Aviator-raised or not, if men his age are Called then perhaps we can get more dragons in the sky.”

“Is there no way we could get an aerial division to drive Villeneuve out of his safe harbour?”

“The Home Division has a pair of Longwings which might be able to do it – but they cannot be spared. Bonaparte would jump on the Channel fleet at once.”

There is a sigh from the second man who had spoken and from what John had heard he had every reason to sigh – he’d had no idea from his, admittedly lowly, position as a Captain that things were going so badly for the Aerial Corps – and it was a well-known truth that if the Corps fell, Britain would soon follow.

“Ordinary bombing will not do – it is not precise enough at long range and no Aviator worth a shilling would take his dragon close to the fortifications – they have poisoned shrapnel guns at Toulon. There _is_ a young Longwing in training, plus Sherlock and his dragon; perhaps together they might shortly be able to take the place of Regina or Ignis at the Channel, and even one of those two might be sufficient at Toulon.”

“But all of that takes time! And I don’t like the idea of this _Army Captain_ harnessing the Winchester, I don’t like it at all.”

This was a new voice, one which John hadn’t heard before and he found himself tensing at the derogatory way that the man had said ‘Army Captain’. It was true that the Corps was clannish in the extreme and known to be unfriendly to outsiders but John had hoped he wouldn’t be automatically shunted simply because of his previous occupation – after all it was the dragon, and not John, who had pulled him into their world.

“You mean the John Watson who is waiting outside this office and can hear every word you say, Lieutenant? Perhaps we should invite him in before we start slinging insults around.”

John quickly looked down and tried to look like he hadn’t been listening intently to every word that had been said, glancing up as the door was swing open to reveal Admiral Granby; one of the most senior military minds in the country.

“Sir.”

John saluted smartly, aware that he was in his smartest dress clothes and yet still looked shabby and out-of-place – he had never been a rich man and recoiled at spending ridiculous amounts of money on clothes.      

 “Ah, I see the reports were not exaggerated. Captain Mycroft Holmes, Aviator, at your service.”

John stepped into the office and was confronted by two men – one tall and thin with dark brown hair and a neutral expression, the other slightly smaller with sandy-coloured hair and a face like thunder. John stepped forwards to shake the Captain’s hand, finding his own clasped in a tight grip, looking into the eyes of a man who was ice personified.

“Captain John Watson, Army, at yours.”

John introduced himself with his old title, aware that he didn’t yet count as an Aviator – his dragon hadn’t even hatched yet – and unwilling to let go of the rank that had taken him years of hard work to achieve.  Mycroft Holmes had eyes that were like chunks of pure ice and although he smiled there was no warmth; John found himself wondering what had happened to this man to make him so cold. He’d seen that look before, in soldiers who had killed so many people and seen such dark things that they shut themselves off from the world rather than succumb to madness.

“It’s an honour, Captain Watson – or should I call you ‘doctor’?”

John found himself shaking the hand of Admiral Granby, wondering when his life had become so strange that he was in a room with one of the most powerful men in Britain. He didn’t know it at the time, but he realised later that Mycroft Holmes was by far the more powerful of the two men; John had in actuality been in the same room as one of the most influential men in the _world_.

“Captain’s worked fine for me so far. I actually left medical practise behind in order to join the Army – always thought I’d go back to it, though I suppose that isn’t an option now.”

He barely contained his dismay at that fact, turning his palm up to show the flare of red that had spread now throughout his entire palm. Captain Holmes leaned forwards and John resisted the urge to step backwards; it seemed Aviators didn’t have as much concept of personal space as the rest of the world.

“Extraordinary. Quiet extraordinary – a red Call right from the first, was it? The Winchester that called you was rocking the egg for days before it finally-”

“It is not to be borne! A Winchester in the hands of some untrained Army clodpole-”

John turned sharply to face the third man in the room, face reddening as the Admiral made a sharp gesture for silence. The man had been stopped before he could say anything more, yet the expression had been shockingly offensive, and John at once gripped the hilt of his sword.

“Sir, you must answer,” he said angrily, “that is more than enough.”

Captain Holmes slapped his hand on the flat of John’s blade, knocking it away from where it had pointed at the man’s chest before admonishing John sternly.

“Enough of that; there is no duelling in the Corps. Hawthorne, leave at once if you cannot at least be civil; I understand this is a grave disappointment but we all have our crosses to bear.”

He then turned to John and gestured with his hand, resulting in John reluctantly sheathing his blade whilst fixing Hawthorne with a steely glare. If he insulted John again he wouldn’t care about some rule against duelling – he would show exactly what an ‘Army clodpole’ could do.

“Hawthorne is merely upset because he resigned his post in the hopes that the Winchester – the dragon which Called you – would Call him. Unfortunately this means that he is unlikely to get another posting for some time – perhaps ever. However, he knew the risks; the important thing is to get you to Loch Laggan as soon as possible – believe me, if the Call is not answered soon that dragon is going to get rather impatient to hatch and you will feel the brunt of its displeasure.”

John turned to look at the glowing red mark on his palm, wondering for the first time about the dragon that was waiting in its egg for John to answer its Call. What kind of dragon was a Winchester? How big was it? How long would it take to grow to full maturity and would John be left sitting on his thumbs in the meantime? Before John could ask any of these however, Hawthorne stormed past him, roughly shoving him with his shoulder as he did so. Captain Holmes smiled wryly as John gritted his teeth and passed his hand over his sword again, resisting the urge to cut the man down.

“Welcome to the Aerial Corps, Captain Watson.”

~~~*~~~

John stared in wonder at the small, grey, unassuming egg that had been placed in front of him. Roughly equivalent in size to an ostrich egg, he had been told that only his touch would cause the egg to crack and the dragon hatchling to emerge. He stared down at his palm, the red light now spreading down each of his fingers and turning an alarming black – apparently the colour was normally green and changed depending on how long it took to answer the Call. According to Captain Holmes it was highly unusual for a Call to be so strong as to be a red right from the start.

“I guess you’re eager to come out, huh?”

John said to the egg – apparently dragon hatchlings had an incredible memory for languages during the first few weeks and learned to speak from the egg. Apparently he was supposed to place his hand on the egg, which would cause the dragon to hatch, give the dragon which emerged a name (apparently this was a very important part of the process; why, John didn’t know) and then harness it with the leather contraption he held in his right hand. This was very important because otherwise the dragon – small though it was – would fly away. After hatching he was supposed to feed it with the bucket of raw meat he had been given for just this task and then it was supposed to fall asleep. John had no idea what to do if one of these steps didn’t happen exactly as it was supposed to – he’d been left alone in the barn which housed seven small Winchester, Greyling and Grey Widowmaker eggs, apparently because it would ‘help him bond’ with his new charge.

“Right then. Here goes. Please don’t try and eat me.”

John took a deep breath and then placed his hand on the dragon egg, almost jumping backwards in shock when red cracks shining with light spread from his hand around the entirety of the egg. The egg cracked fully open with a violent jolt and the dragonet emerged, its small purple head – complete with a full set of sharp jaws – snapping at thin air. It was roughly the size of a small dog, wings already perfectly formed; even if they were currently wet with egg membrane.

“Hello.”

John startled at the voice – definitely male – which had come from the small dragon in front of him, kneeling down to meet its eyes as it reared up to peer at him curiously.

“Hello. My name’s John. John Watson. What’s yours?”

It was an answer born of familiarity and yet John didn’t have the time to curse himself as the young dragon yawned widely, displaying that impressive set of teeth.

“I don’t have one.”

The dragon sounded so sad that John reached out and stroked its head, watching in awe as it nuzzled at him curiously, wide brown eyes staring at him eagerly.

“Would you like me to give you one?”

He asked, holding his breath as he waited for the answer, having honestly no clue what he would do if the dragon said no.

“I suppose that would be alright.”

John grinned and licked his lips, mentally repeating the name he had decided on earlier. He had heard from Mycroft that it was a Corps tradition to name your dragon something extravagant in Latin, but John had settled on a simpler name.

“How about Hermes? His symbol is the caduceus, which seems appropriate considering I’m a doctor. Plus he’s the messenger God – and they tell me you’re the fastest breed of dragon there is.”

The dragon considered this for a few moments before nodding, flapping its wings and looking up into the rafters of the barn, attention pulled from John as quickly as it had fixated on him.

“Yes. I quite like that name; I’d really like to fly now.”

“Er, no,” John hastily said, his attention pulled to the harness held in his right hand, “perhaps it would be better if you allowed me to put this on first? Only, it would be dangerous for you to go off on your own. And here – I have some meat for you. You must be hungry.”

Hermes leapt eagerly for the food the second John had finished speaking, allowing John to fix the complicated harness as best he could whilst he was distracted eating. By the time he was finished, Hermes’s eyes were drooping, and it wasn’t long before he curled around John’s hand, snout just touching the red scar the Call had left behind.

“Captain John Watson, Aviator.”

John allowed himself to say the words aloud for the first time, smiling as he gently stroked over Hermes’s small body. And he found, much to his surprise, that he liked the sound of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All copyright goes to the BBC and Naomi Novik - I am only borrowing the amazing worlds they have created.
> 
> The inspiration for this fic came largely from Naomi Novik's AMAZING novels, which I would recommend anyone who likes books about dragons to purchase.
> 
> For those of you who like historical accuracy, here are some points about the information in this fic:
> 
> 1\. The battle mentioned at the start was an actual conflict which occurred between members of the British expeditionary corps and the French. The call to arms was sounded at 3am and the battle started at approximately 3:30am. During the battle the 28th North Gloucestershire Regiment of Foot was attacked from behind by French Forces who had broken through. They were given the order 'front rank stay as you are, rear rank about turn' and successfully repelled the enemy. In recognition of this they had the honor of wearing badges on both the front and back of their caps. The fighting slowed down from 8am onward and the last shot was fired at around 10am. 
> 
> 2\. Shoulder epoulettes to distinguish officers from NCO's weren't introduced until 1810. Up until this point the only way to separate officers from each other was the arrangement of laces on their cuffs - hence John's comment that it was difficult for the enemy to spot him. The current system of stars and crowns was adapted from the system which was introduced in 1810. 
> 
> 3\. The Brown Bess was in fact the standard weapon of the time and used the newly-developed flintlock system. It was, however, only accurate up to 30 paces.
> 
> 4\. The concept of 'The Call' is my own take on Naomi Novik's work, so if anyone has read the books and is confused as to where that idea came from - well, the insanity in my own head :)
> 
> 5\. It wasn't uncommon for members of the Army and Navy to be away from home for years in 1804, and in fact many were away from home longer than the five years that John quotes. I felt it important to mention this fact because to some readers John's supposition that Mary would leave him may sound premature; however baring in mind how long he had been gone and the fact there was no formal arrangement between the two of them, her actions would have been fairly easy to predict.
> 
> 6\. The argument between Mycroft and Admiral Granby was adapted from a conversation in Temeraire between Lawrence and another member of the Corps - just in case some of you were thinking it sounded slightly familiar :)
> 
> In the next chapter I intend to introduce Sherlock, so be prepared for that ;)  
> I will also be posting, as a separate work, an archive of the dragon breeds I intend to use for this fic. It took me several hours to compile, so I hope it will be useful to those of you who want to know more about the dragons of Temeraire, or just as a handbook to look up facts quickly.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please don't hesitate to comment on where you want the fic to go next - I have general plot points for each chapter but always appreciate advice. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it and hopefully intend to post the next chapter before next week.


	2. Captain Sherlock Holmes

_London, England – 17 th June 1790 10:30am_

Sherlock peered through the looking glass at the insect, mentally calculating the best way to sneak it past Mummy and into the house. It was so _boring_ without Mycroft that he thought he would die. Perhaps dying would be kinder. Mummy wouldn’t let him do _anything,_ and since Mycroft had been Called six years ago she had been paranoid that Sherlock was going to leave too. He’d tried telling her that there was no way he was going to be Called – he’d already decided he was going to become a Consulting Detective – but she just smiled sadly and ruffled his hair, telling him that if he was meant to be Called then he would be. Sherlock had scowled and batted her hands away; there was _no way_ that he was going anywhere he didn’t want to go – and that was _final._

He had already come to think of what he did as The Work – in capitals – and being Called was simply not part of the future he had planned out for himself. He was going to solve crimes (like the police) but answer to no one. That was Sherlock’s main aim – that when his future finally arrived, he would be answerable to no one.

Sherlock straightened up from under the tree where he’d been kneeling whilst examining the beetle, deciding regretfully that he would never get it past Mummy’s eagle eye. It was as Sherlock did this that the light faded from the world. One minute he could see fine, the next there was nothing but darkness. Screaming in terror he fell to his knees, calling out to Mummy as he rubbed at his eyes, trying desperately to restore his sight.

“Sherlock!”

He was enveloped by warm arms and heard his mother calling him as if from a great distance – she wasn’t important, her call didn’t matter. Because there was a far more important Call that he could hear ringing in his ears, and knew that despite the fact he couldn’t see that there would be light pulsing in his veins.

The Call. Sherlock was being Called. He would never get to be the Consulting Detective that he had fixated on from an early age – ever since Mycroft had been taken from him in a burst of blue light that had pounded through his brother’s veins. Mycroft tried to visit if he could, but he had harnessed a Regal Copper and could rarely be spared from the front line, regardless of how young he had been when he was Called. And now Sherlock would share that fate – regardless of what breed of dragon was Calling to him, Sherlock would have no choice but to join the Corps. As his vision returned to him in a flash of bright light, Sherlock could only lie there and whisper:

“But I wanted to be a Consulting Detective.”

~~~*~~~

_Beijing, China – 14 th September 1790 _

Another shiver wracked Sherlock’s pale frame as he sat miserably at the long table, where members of the British Aerial Corps, British Diplomatic Corps and British Navy argued with the Chinese. It had been weeks since Sherlock had heard the Call, weeks where he had gotten thinner and thinner as nausea flooded his every waking minute and his vision blinked in and out. They had discovered pretty early on that no British dragon was Calling Sherlock – no dragon in the West, as it turned out. No, apparently Sherlock was being Called by a Chinese dragon known as a Celestial.

The Chinese were not happy about this fact.

“It is an insult. A grave insult that this… _foreigner,_ this _child,_ will bond with the Tien-Lung!” 

Sherlock wanted to say that it was hardly _his_ fault that the dragon had Called him, that he hadn’t wanted to be an Aviator in the first place. Another shiver passed down his spine and he blinked as darkness encroached on his vision, rendering him temporarily blind.

“And what, may I ask, do you intend to use the Tien-Lung for if this child _does_ bond with him? Do you intend to put one of those ugly _harnesses_ on it and ride it into battle like your common British breeds? Our dragons are not made for battle, especially the Tien-Lung which is the sacred dragon of the Emperor!”

The Chinese were livid actually, Sherlock thought, rubbing his eyes as his vision returned in fits and starts, fighting back a wave of nausea as he did so.

“What we do with our own Aviators and their partners is no business of yours. The fact remains that unless you allow Sherlock Holmes – who is a member of the British gentry, I might add, with a noble heritage dating back to our own King George the Third – then you will lose dragon and Aviator both. Unless it is hatched soon it will kill Sherlock by trying to pull him towards it and then die in the egg.”

Sherlock looked up at this, fear flooding him as he heard for the first time what he had been dreading all along. That the Chinese wouldn’t let him hatch the Celestial and that it would kill him whilst trying to Call him to it. Sherlock didn’t want to die – there was so much that he wanted to do, so much left undiscovered. He wished bitterly that he had never been Called at all.

The Chinese, however, seemed to be interested in something the diplomat had said – Sherlock hadn’t bothered to discover the names of all the people that had come with him on the long journey East, and in his opinion the man wasn’t much of a diplomat. More often than not he’d gotten them thrown out of the Imperial Palace, where the negotiations were taking place, as the Chinese had stormed off in a fit of rage.

“You can provide proof that this child is a descendant of your King?”

Sherlock squinted at the palace official, confused as to why this should matter so much. He had grown up with Mummy going on and on about how their ancestry could be dated back all the way to the royal family, and had soon become uninterested in his family’s past – practically every member of the gentry claimed to be related to the King.

“I have a copy of his ancestry right here – but I fail to see how-”

“Celestials have always Called to members of the Chinese Imperial household, usually to family members of the Emperor himself. It is a travesty that this one has Called to a foreigner – however, if you can guarantee that this child is of royal blood and that the dragon will not be used in combat…”

Sherlock could see the diplomat consider his offer and felt his heart fall as he realised he would never agree. Britain needed fighting dragons too much for him to just make a promise like that. From an early age Sherlock had been able to see things that others couldn’t – Mycroft had called them _deductions_ and Sherlock had considered it both a gift and a curse. For instance, he always knew when Mummy was lying to him about Mycroft being alright, but he also knew that the British Aerial Corps would never agree to ground one of their greatest assets. And that was a death warrant for Sherlock.

“With all respect I cannot agree to that offer. I can, however, ensure the Emperor that we will treat the Celestial – er, Tien-Lung – with the greatest of respect and only use him when our need is greatest.”

Sherlock’s vision blurred again and he whimpered softly, gripping his head as another headache flashed through him. He knew with the certainty of a dying man that unless a deal was reached soon then there would be no deal at all. The Chinese, perhaps realising that this was the best deal they could hope for from the stubborn British Aviators, or perhaps realising that the dragon would die in the egg if a deal wasn’t struck, conferred for several minutes before reluctantly, _finally_ agreeing.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet as he heard the sound of all the chairs scraping back from the table at once, his brain filtering through the sounds and converting them into pictures. It was a skill he had become adept at over the last few weeks. The pain in his head was reaching fever pitch and he groaned, dropping to his knees as blood filled his mouth. He was vaguely aware of being picked up and carried, lacking the strength to protest being treated like – well, a child.

He came back to himself when heat flooded his body and he realised he was in some kind of steam room. Sweat was soon dripping down his face and his vision returned in a blinding flash. He looked down at his right hand; the red light of the previous few days which had been slowly creeping around his wrist was gone now to leave only a smooth scar. Sherlock sat up, blinking rapidly, looking around to see –

The dragonet. It was large against Sherlock’s skinny frame and he remembered from what Mycroft had said that it was unusually large for such a young dragon. It’s scales were a dark black which faded onto midnight-blue circles at its flanks and along its wings, which already had six tiny spines at the end of each ridge.

“Ugh.”

Sherlock shuddered in horror at the unintelligent noise that came from his mouth, watching warily as the dragon, which had curled itself at Sherlock’s feet, looked up with an expression of such _eagerness_ that Sherlock was slightly daunted. He could see now that it was chained down – clearly to prevent it flying away and turning feral whilst Sherlock recovered – and the remnants of its egg lay slightly to one side. Obviously he had been so far gone that they had been forced to place his hand against the egg and hatch the dragonet whilst he had been unconscious. Had they not, there was a high chance Sherlock would not have woken up at all.

“Aviator.”

Sherlock blinked at the dragonet – obviously a female judging by her voice – as she said the first (intelligible) word between them.

“What?”

Sherlock stared as the dragonet padded over to him – he was still sitting, propped up by his elbows, on the floor – and sniffed him curiously, and he wondered how it was that she spoke English when she had been raised in China.

“That’s who they said you are. Aviator. Does that mean I’m called Aviator too?”

Sherlock grimaced and rubbed his eyes, risking a glance at the door as he wondered how long he’d been unconscious – clearly not very long as the dragonet’s wings were still slightly damp from the egg membrane. He spotted a bucket some feet away – out of reach of the dragonet – and realised it must contain meat to feed to the young dragon, but only after he’d harnessed her.

“No. No, my name isn’t Aviator – it’s Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And you’re not called Aviator either, your name is…”

Sherlock forced his brain – usually as efficient as a well-run machine but currently slower than it had ever been – to remember the name that he had chosen on the long journey East. He had agonised over the decision greatly, worried that his companion for life would be saddled with a stupid name. Mycroft had named _his_ dragon Regina – which meant Queen in Latin – and Sherlock had wanted to give his dragon a name like that. Powerful, eloquent and grown up.

“Your name is Libertas – it means freedom.”

Libertas seemed pleased with her name but seemed even more interested in the bucket of meat, pawing at Sherlock’s leg and whining until he heaved himself to his feet and staggered over to it, swiping the harness which lay next to it as he did so. Despite Libertas’s protests that as she was called freedom she should be _allowed_ freedom, Sherlock was able to fit the harness around her without too much trouble. He then proceeded to feed her pieces of raw meat, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Once she was sated, belly round as she slumped over Sherlock’s lap, Libertas settled down to sleep, clearly unconcerned about their future as long as she was well fed and Sherlock was nearby. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to feel the same way – his dreams of being a detective were gone, as were his hopes of being independent from his country. He’d had no intention to fight a war simply because someone higher up than him told him to – he’d always had ‘issues’ with authority, unlike Mycroft.

Now he wouldn’t have a choice. He would have to ‘do as he was told’ for the rest of his life, always following someone else’s orders and fighting someone else’s battles. Still, as Sherlock sat in the steam room, getting warmer and warmer by the minute, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret answering Libertas’s Call.

“Sherlock Holmes, Aviator.”

As Sherlock whispered the words aloud he felt a shiver of anticipation run down his spine. Because those words weren’t boring, certainly weren’t ordinary or hatefully _normal_. Although he couldn’t be a Consulting Detective, perhaps there was something more than that waiting for him, something greater than what he had begun to think secretly to himself as The Work. Perhaps, one day, he would be more than the freak he’d been called his entire life. No, Sherlock thought as he reached out one hand and ran it over Libertas’s wing, he couldn’t bring himself to regret a future that would have him bound intrinsically to the young dragon. Even if that future would send them into the blood-strewn skies as they fought for their lives against Napoleon Bonaparte; they would face whatever the future held for them. Together.

~~~*~~~

_Lake Abukir, Egypt – 21st March 1801, 7:10am_

Sherlock yelled out the order to duck just seconds before Libertas’s rigging was peppered with musket-shot, feeling one bullet pass within millimetres of his head. He raised his head to see the other dragons in his formation whirling in the sky around Libertas, manoeuvring in a way that Libertas couldn’t in an attempt to avoid the shots coming from the French Fleur-de-Nuit.

About a mile off lay Lake Abukir, where a confrontation was under way between members of the British expeditionary corps and French troops; it was Sherlock’s job to ensure that the French Armée de l’Air didn’t interfere – not an easy task considering his formation was outnumbered two-to-one and the French had twice the number of heavyweights.

“Lieutenant Trevor! Cover Libertas from the right when we make another turn; the last thing we need right now is to take another round of fire without returning the favour!”

Sherlock shouted to be heard over the rush of the wind, adjusting his Aviator goggles slightly as Libertas turned sharply to the left, the other members of their formation following smartly. _This_ was why they spent hours training the same manoeuvres, so that in the midst of battle a dragon didn’t fall out of step and leave Libertas vulnerable. Sherlock knew that the French were just waiting for the chance to board her – if they threatened Sherlock she would do anything they asked to keep him safe.

They came up on the left of the Fleur-de-Nuit and Sherlock ordered Victor to signal the attack, leaning forwards to yell to Libertas over the wind.

“Now, Libertas!”

Libertas reared her head back slightly – Sherlock and the others remained perfectly steady having grown used to this action over the last few years. Most of Sherlock’s crew had served with him since he was fifteen and so were used to Libertas’s unusual ability. She roared out a challenge to the Fleur-de-Nuit, which was similar in size to her, and the ruff on her neck stood on end as she unleashed the full power of the Divine Wind. It shot from her in a pulse, slamming into the enemy dragon and sending it reeling away, wings faltering as the sonic scream caused pain and confusion. This gave the other members of Sherlock’s formation the opening they needed to attack and he spotted Moran and his Malachite Reaper take a chunk out of one of its wings. The Reaper, despite being half the size of the French dragon held on grimly as it roared in agony, blood flooding from the wound to fall to the ground far below. Eventually Moran was forced to retreat as the French formation rallied to protect their principle dragon, but they had to know the battle was already lost.

Sherlock gave the order to fire, smiling in satisfaction as his Midwingman peppered the French dragon with a volley of their own, causing at least two to stagger backwards with sharp cries of agony. Sherlock was relentless in ensuring that his crew could fire a decent shot – no mean task when on dragonback – because in the heat of battle there would be no time for a second go. Finally the French crew realised they were being outshot and risked losing their Captain. They did the sensible thing and retreated.

Sherlock tried to regroup his formation quickly enough to board the Fleur-de-Nuit – it was barely flying and would make an easy target – but before he could get them efficiently lined up the French had signalled the retreat, and they were forced to watch them go. Although it would have been brilliant to return to England with a Fleur-de-Nuit as a prize, their aim was to aid the British forces currently engaging French troops. It was vital that Abukir remain under British control and as much as Sherlock railed against following the orders of glorified paper-pushers, he knew he would never forgive himself if one of his formation was injured because he was reckless enough to disobey orders. After all, there was no way of knowing if the French were leading them into a trap – there could be more Fleur-de-Nuit or even another whole formation lying in wait.

Sherlock reluctantly ordered the formation to head towards the battle going on in the shadow of Lake Abukir, sharp eyes scanning the terrain below in the hopes that he would see an easy opening to attack the enemy forces without catching any British troops in the crossfire. He could see the British line on the left had recently fended off attacks from both the front and rear, and could just make out one of their commanders – of what rank he simply couldn’t tell from this distance – stepping forwards whilst rallying his men. Sherlock also saw the exact moment that he took a musket shot in the shoulder and felt a feeling of confused anger well up inside of him. Libertas soon passed the British line and Sherlock lost sight of the man who had been shot; he shook himself mentally and focussed on the French lines, trying to see an opening for Libertas’ attack.

“There, Libertas, between the lake and the ruins!”

Sherlock and the crew were attached to the harness by leather strips which prevented them from being thrown off Libertas whilst she was manoeuvring – or if one of them was injured. They passed over his thighs and secured him near Libertas’s neck; as her Captain it was only right that he was in a position to call out orders to her. His Lieutenant, Victor Trevor, was position just behind him, relaying his orders to the crew and armed himself with a musket. As Libertas reared back and the rest of Sherlock’s formation swarmed on the French line, which had little if any anti-dragon weaponry, Sherlock gripped on to the leather pommel in front of him, watching in satisfaction as the Divine Wind wreaked havoc on the French troops, sending them running in terror. There was nothing like a pissed off Celestial to put the fear of dragons into you.

Sherlock ordered the formation to come about but only signalled the pair of lightweight Winchesters, which had been assigned to him specifically for this purpose, to attack; their own forces on the ground were now too entangled with the enemy line to risk sending in the larger dragons. As Libertas circled above the battlefield, jaws opened in a feral scream of victory, Sherlock scanned the British line for any sign of the wounded soldier. He couldn’t see him, naturally – he may be dead for all Sherlock knew – or one of the many wounded lying scattered across the field. Little did he know that in that moment of anger he had saved John Watson’s life.

~~~*~~~

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 21 st May 1804_

“Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock! Have the heard? Did you hear the news about the Winchester?”

Sherlock looked up as Victor and Mike came running towards where he was busy cleaning Libertas’s harness, leaning back against the Celestial’s hide as he worked. Libertas was now 24 tonnes heavy and 109 feet long, much too large to sleep inside with Sherlock like she had used to when she was a dragonet. Now, more often than not, Sherlock found himself sleeping outside under the stars, one of Libertas’s ridged wings furling around him and forming a canopy not unlike a tent. Her hide was a deep black, which faded to midnight blue at her flanks with slightly lighter blue circles over her sides and wings. At around 6 months old, long tendrils had sprouted from her snout, something she was very self-conscious of as none of the other dragons had them, and had also grown a frilled ruff around her neck,

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

Sherlock sighed, sounding put-upon, as he did his best to ignore his Lieutenant and Mike Stamford, an Aviator Captain who was 45 years old and who had harnessed a very agreeable Yellow Reaper many years previously. Between the two of them Sherlock rarely found time to himself, and had come to hoard jealously the time he was able to spend alone with Libertas. The problem with having a heavyweight was that you had an entire crew who required your time and attention; there were times Sherlock envied the riders of Winchesters and Greylings who had no crew members at all. Then again, the Captains of smaller dragons were rarely at rest; during times of war they flew sensitive messages back and forth between the fleet and Dover and Dover and Aerial Command and were always on the move. During times of peace they were recruited by the Home Office to act as glorified messengers, rarely spending much time at the coverts like Sherlock did, or as spies and scouts.

“There’s no need to be like that Sherlock, we’re only trying-”

“It’s been harnessed by an Army Captain!”

At Victor’s tone Sherlock looked up from where he’d been polishing the buckles on Libertas’s harness; although he had crew members who looked after the harness he always liked to do some of the work himself if he could. Although there were times when Sherlock longed for the peace of the covert, in all honesty when he was here he often got bored and turned his attention to his scientific experiments when he wasn’t flying drills with the formation or training his crew.

“So? Moran was in the Army and he harnessed a Malachite Reaper just fine. Insignis is an excellent dragon and a good friend. I fail to see how this Call is any more significant than his.”

Libertas had raised her head from where she had been watching Sherlock lazily with one eye open, yawning widely as she addressed Victor, who was clearly furious. Sherlock found himself intrigued by this and looked closer at the man who had been his colleague almost from the time Sherlock had gone into harness.

_Anger – he’s afraid that this Army Captain won’t do the Winchester justice, or perhaps he’s already met him and has taken a disliking to the man. Sadness – no, disappointment; Victor had half convinced himself that the Winchester would Call him. He’s 24, getting too old to be Called and he’s desperate. This Winchester may have been his last chance at going into harness. Jealously; Winchesters are rare dragons and, lightweight or not, Victor had wanted to harness that dragon. Badly._

Keeping his deductions to himself, Sherlock made a non-committal sound, eyes flicking to Mike to judge _his_ reaction. Usually even-tempered, if the new Aviator had managed to rile Mike Stamford up then perhaps…but there was more. Sherlock could see it in Mike’s excited expression and in Trevor’s shaking hands, which he’d clenched into fists.

“He’s _30_. Moran was 22 when he was Called and he came from a family of Aviators. This _Captain John Watson_ has done the impossible. No one has ever been called later than their mid-twenties. Ever!”

_Captain John Watson._

A boring, _normal_ name which had somehow become attached to a person who was anything but. Sherlock felt Libertas’s surprise through their bond and wondered smugly how the Army Captain was going to handle _that._ Once an Aviator went into harness an inexplicable bond was formed between dragon and Captain. It started with small things – feeling starving after you’d just eaten, not feeling sated even after spending a satisfying night with your partner. These feelings and emotions which weren’t your own, tangled up in your own sentiments until you had no idea where yours ended and your dragons’ began. Over time Sherlock had come to be able to separate his own feelings from Libertas’, and although the connection couldn’t be used to communicate, couldn’t, in fact, be manipulated or consciously altered by either dragon nor Aviator, Sherlock took comfort in the fact that no matter how far away Libertas was from him, he was always _aware_ of her, in a way that he could never fully describe.

“30? Imagine that, Sherlock, an Aviator going into harness at that age!”

Sherlock could feel Libertas’s amusement through their bond and had to hide a smile himself at how frustrated Victor was. Now that Sherlock thought about it, where was Hawthorne? Usually the pair of them were inseparable, rarely did you see one without the other. Libertas shifted under his back and he stood, dropping the harness and grimacing as his muscles complained from the sudden movement. At 28, Sherlock could hardly be called an old man but years spent in harness, training sometimes for hours each day, had meant that there were times he felt twice as old as he was.

“Hawthorne resigned his post.”

Sherlock looked up sharply at this and Libertas let out a cry of surprise. It was a rare thing for any Aviator to willingly give up their post and last time Sherlock had checked, Hawthorne was posted aboard Regina at the Channel, a post that inspired envy amongst most other Aviators. Clearly he had resigned his post in the hopes that the Winchester would Call him – a risk even considering that all four of his brothers had gone into harness.

“It was his choice, Victor. We all know the risks-”

“You don’t know what it’s like!”

Victor was angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him and he realised belatedly that it wasn’t disappointment for himself that was fuelling Victor’s rage; it was disappointment for Hawthorne, who Sherlock suspected was more than a friend to the Lieutenant.

“You don’t know what it’s like to wait years, _years_ , for the Call, to want it more than anything. We serve for years on board the dragons of others, seeing the bond they share and wanting it so desperately for ourselves. And now…now this untrained, uneducated _Army_ man has stolen Hawthorne’s chance. His _last_ chance!”

Sherlock blinked in shock at the outburst from his usually serene colleague, finding himself lost for words as he opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. Because how _did_ he come back from that? Trevor was right – Sherlock had no clue how it felt to wait years to hear the Call, had never felt that desperation as the years began to pass you by and you got too old to be considered for the Call. Fortunately, Libertas shared none of his guilt and she snorted loudly, causing Sherlock to fix her with a reproachful look.

“It is hardly the fault of John Watson that he was Called, you know. And doesn’t this mean that there is a chance you could still be Called, if a man in his thirties who isn’t from the Corps has heard the Call?”

Sherlock was barely aware of Trevor scowling and shouting some more, only leaving when Libertas growled threateningly and informed him she would eat him if he didn’t either calm down or go away. Mike grimaced sympathetically and said a jovial goodbye, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. _Captain John Watson._ A military man Called in his thirties. Sherlock suddenly felt the urge to get up and meet this unique man, question him on when, _how_ it had happened. God only knew it was a good thing – there were over twenty eggs that were yet to hatch, some of which had been waiting for years. If older men (and women in the case of the Longwings) were being Called, then perhaps they could gather enough dragons to challenge Bonaparte head on.

Sherlock moved forwards, Libertas following slowly so as to not accidently crush him, and made his way towards the small barn where he knew the new Aviator would be enclosed with his dragon. They had spent long enough in there to ensure the bond was formed and the dragon harnessed and now Sherlock wanted to see for himself what kind of Aviator John Watson would become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is - slightly earlier than expected so hooray for that ! :)  
> Please review and comment - how do you feel about the characterisation? This is early days yet but I really want to hear what you think about what's happened so far ;)  
> Just a few points about this chapter for those of you who want some additional information: 
> 
> 1\. Just realised that 'Aviator' should really have a capital. I'll go through chapter 1 and change this for those of you who are confused about the inconsistency :)
> 
> 2\. Naomi Novik actually had her Aviators with bars instead of stripes, so in this fic the system of ranking by shoulder badges is introduced in the Aerial Corps and nowhere else - for now ;)
> 
> 3\. For those of you who might have missed it, Sherlock mentions that Trevor has been under his service almost from the beginning. For those of you not so savvy at maths that would have made Trevor 10 when he first served. This wasn't unusual in the Corps and this is explained in greater detail in the second chapter of Dragons of Temeraire if anyone wants to know more.
> 
> Once again I hope you enjoy reading this and never fear - Sherlock and John finally meet in the next chapter, which I hope to post some time next week ;)


	3. The Aerial Corps

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 21 st May 1804, _4pm

 

John

Hermes didn’t stay asleep for very long and decided to alternate between whining at John to provide him with more food and stretching his wings, looking enviously at the barn roof.

“I would like to _fly_ John Watson. Please may I?”

Hermes, it seemed, was a very polite young dragon; something John was grateful for whilst at the same time making him even more curious about how much, exactly, a young dragon could learn from inside the egg.

“Call me John, Hermes, no need to stand on ceremony; we’re going to be – partners, I guess is the right word – for a long, long time.”

John found himself unable to keep the misery from his voice at the reminder that the life that he had known up until this point had been ruthlessly taken away from him. The Call was akin to being conscripted, only worse – at least conscripts had the option of serving their time and then leaving. John, on the other hand, would have no such option. He was bound to Hermes now for the rest of his life and found himself wondering how long Hermes himself would live for – he had heard some of the larger breeds could live hundreds of years but highly doubted a small dragon like Hermes would have that longevity.

“Why are you scowling?”

John glanced down to see Hermes looking up at him curiously, small tail twitching nervously from side-to-side. It would not do, John thought, to allow Hermes to realise the depth of his regret at being pulled from his old life. For better or worse he was bound to the little dragon now; it would be unacceptable to alienate his lifelong partner before they had barely begun to know one another.

“I apologise, I did not mean to. You must understand that although _you_ have just hatched, _I_ have lived for thirty years already – I was a soldier before I heard your Call.”

Hermes seemed remarkably excited about this fact, padding into John’s lap and rearing up on his hind legs to place his forelegs on John’s chest, looking him straight in the eyes.

“Really? A solider? Have you fought in many battles? Will you tell me about them?”

John stared bemusedly at Hermes, who was practically quivering with delight over his news. _Well, at least_ someone _is happy about your former occupation._ John found himself wondering if all the Aviators were going to be as irritated at him as Hawthorne had been; it was bad enough that Aviators were generally unusual and slightly strange individuals without them taking an instant disliking to him before he’d even had the chance to introduce himself.

“Of course, Hermes. If you’re interested in military history, I have several books on the subject which-”

John found himself cut off mid-sentence by the unmistakable sound of the barn door opening, jerking his head around sharply as Hermes peered over his shoulder curiously. Disliking the fact that his back was to the door, John stood and turned to face the person who had entered, blinking in shock as the looming silhouette of a heavyweight dragon appeared at the door.

The man – definitely an Aviator, judging by the long oilskin coat and the flying goggles he wore around his neck – was tall and thin, with incredibly pale skin and piercing, unearthly blue eyes. His hair was a mop of flyaway brown curls and John noted with trepidation that both it and his clothes were rumpled and untidy. He had noted on his way here that most Aviators tended not to stand on ceremony and were usually rumpled of dress and distressingly casual. John was still in his Army gear – dress uniform, naturally – and found himself even more out of place now that this Aviator was standing before him. He was young – younger than John, although not by much – and towered over John’s stocky frame; wiry where John was muscular.

“Good afternoon. You must be Captain John Watson – or do you prefer Doctor Watson?”

John found himself trapped in eyes that were totally devoid of any emotion other than slight curiosity; he was vaguely aware that Hermes had wrapped himself around John’s legs and was staring, wide-eyed, at the massive heavyweight in the doorway.

“Ah-”

“John it is then – we don’t stand on ceremony here in the Corps, as I am sure you have found out. This is my partner, Libertas – and I am Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, Aviator Captain.”

John found himself automatically accepting the hand that Sherlock held out to him, a flare of recognition going off in his head as he did so.

“Holmes? Wouldn’t happen to be any relation of Captain Mycroft Holmes, would you?”

John almost smiled as Sherlock Holmes let out a slightly disgusted snort and grimaced, staring down at where John still grasped his hand. This, of course, made John drop it like it was on fire, resulting in Sherlock Holmes quirking his lip in amusement.

“My brother, actually. He was called in his teens by a Regal Copper who is currently on duty at the Channel.”

John found himself observing Sherlock Holmes for any signs that he was related to the fastidious man he had met briefly at the Admiralty office. He remembered that Mycroft had been clean-shaven and spotlessly clean and refined – quite unlike the man who stood before him now, who gave off the air of caged tiger.

“Regina is a very nice dragon, actually – although she can be rather stuffy at times. Are you going to introduce us to _your_ partner, John?”

John’s eyes shot to Sherlock’s dragon, who was peering through the door as even her snout was much too big to fit through, one massive emerald eye peering at him with open curiosity. He caught a glimpse of midnight-blue scales and wondering what breed of dragon she was. Regal Coppers were the only British breed John had heard of which grew to that size – and they were always coloured shades of red or orange.

“Ah – yes, of course. Captain Holmes, Libertas; this is…my partner, Hermes.”

Sherlock knelt down at John’s feet to quietly observe Hermes, who ducked between John’s legs, obviously shy. This put John in a rather uncomfortable position – he couldn’t exactly stay where he was, staring awkwardly at the back of Sherlock’s head, but kneeling down felt a little like they would be crowding the small dragonet.

“Sherlock, please. Yes, the Winchester. Average size for his breed, colouration looks normal and will probably turn out some darker shade of purple. These markings on his back are interesting, though hardly unusual for a Winchester. Interesting choice for a name – clearly a nod to your medical roots. All in all, he’s a healthy young dragon – if a little ordinary.”

John stiffened at Sherlock’s tone, disliking the way the Aviator had said ‘ordinary’. Almost with a sneer, like it was something to be ashamed of. John clenched his hands into fists as Sherlock stood, absently reaching down to stroke Hermes’s head as he nuzzled at John’s hand. He realised with a jolt that the young dragon _knew_ that John was upset and was trying to comfort him. A warm glow spread through John’s chest as he realised the unconditional love that the young dragon clearly felt for him – and that he returned, however impossible it seemed, after spending just a couple of hours with his future partner.

“Is there something wrong with ordinary?”

John found himself asking, watching warily as Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly highly amused by John’s belligerence. Libertas rolled her great eye, huffing dramatically and glaring balefully at her Captain.

“Here we go again…”

Sherlock seemed even more amused after this comment from his dragon, raking his sharp gaze lazily over John before smirking slightly. John found himself bristling despite himself – something about this Aviator just brushed him the wrong way.

“Ordinary is _dull_. Ordinary is _safe._ I highly doubt a man such as yourself, who forsook a much more lucrative career in medicine to join the _Army_ , would be content with an _ordinary_ life. I meant no…offense…to your dragon, I was merely stating the facts.”

Strangely enough, this did little to curb John’s temper and he stared at Sherlock with no small amount of trepidation. _Good Lord, what if all the Aerial Corps are as strange as he is?_

“And what would you know about it, Sir? You aren’t an expert, how could you possibly know anything there is to know about Hermes and me?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up at this and Libertas, clearly fed up with her partner’s attitude, snorted in disgust and withdrew from the barn entrance; John found himself pitying the dragon for having to put up with this annoying prick for the rest of his life. His hand twitched for his sword, for the first time regretful that duelling was banned within the Corps – there was too high a risk that one party would receive an injury grave enough to put them out of duty. Nevertheless, rules or no John knew that if he’d had his sword in that moment he probably would have drawn it – for some reason insults to Hermes affected him far more than any insult to himself. He’d left the weapon behind in deference to the hatchling – a sharp implement near a newly hatched dragon was just asking for trouble.

“Oh, but I _do_ know about you, John. I know that you’ve recently broken the news of your Call to your fiancée and she left you. I know you had a brother who drank excessively and died some time ago. I know that you feel bitter about being drafted into the Corps and considered ignoring the Call. I also know that you lead from the front in battle and served seven – no, eight – years in the Army which means you meant to advance in that career path before retirement – probably to some house in the country where you could settle with the aforementioned fiancé – my apologies about her, by the way; those of us who are Called rarely manage to maintain the relationships of our previous lives.”

John was stunned speechless by Sherlock’s speech, wondering how in the world he could possibly know those things about John. About Mary, Harry – even his plans for the future. He’d told no one of his vision for retirement – he’d felt that saying the words aloud before his plan could mature would surely have killed any hope he had of his dream coming true. Now, it didn’t matter either way. He hadn’t spoken about Harry in years – his brother’s memory was still too vividly painful to think about – and yet this man, this stranger, had known all about him.

“How-”

“How did I know? Really John, it’s a simple matter of deduction. Your pocket watch – gold, inlayed with a family crest, clearly a family heirloom. It’s covered in scratches and scrapes; the man standing before me wouldn’t treat such a valuable item in this way, so it clearly belonged to someone before you – it isn’t old enough to have belonged to your father, so a sibling then; clearly a brother as this design is clearly for males. Around the winder are distinctive scrape marks – every night your brother would wind it up but his hand was shaking, clearly he was an alcoholic and probably had been for some time; when you include the fact that you now own the watch it isn’t a difficult leap to assume your brother passed away, probably as a result of his drinking – not long ago, clearly, or you would have had the watch repaired by now.”

John gaped, aware that Hermes was keenly listening to every word Sherlock said and he feared that the little dragon was somewhat in awe of the other Aviator. The last thing he wanted was for Hermes to develop a sense of hero-worship; however intelligent Sherlock seemed he was also arrogant and clearly cared nothing for the feelings of others.

“Furthermore, taking into account your military rank and career aspirations, it was hardly difficult to deduce the fact you would have had a _lady_ waiting for you to return home. Clearly you are bitter about being Called into the Corps so obviously your ex-future wife, clearly not enamoured with the concept of coven life, informed you of her desire to sever all ties – hardly surprising I’m afraid. The depth of your dismay means that your reluctance to embrace Corps life goes beyond simply losing your fiancée; you also feel that you’ve lost any future you might have had after the war and have clearly realised by now that a dragon cannot be simply put aside like a sword once the battle is done. So you realise that I _am_ in a position to…comment…on you and partner, John.”

There was dead silence for a moment as John stared at Sherlock and Sherlock looked neutrally back, not giving anything away with his expression.

“Mary and I…we were never engaged – not formally anyway.”

John said finally, watching warily as Sherlock scowled and relaxed slightly; when John looked closer he realised Sherlock had been tense, probably aware of how close John had come to punching him. John wondered how many people Sherlock had offended enough to evoke a physical response. John was still unsure of his own feelings on the matter; on one hand it was insulting and humiliating that a man he barely knew had picked him apart so easily, but on the other John found it difficult to contain his awe of Sherlock’s talent.

“That…was amazing.”     

  John declared, smiling as his words caused perhaps one of the few honest responses he’d seen from Sherlock. He seemed shocked, then amused and finally intrigued, looking at John as though he was a particularly interesting animal that had done something unexpected.

“That isn’t what people normally say.”

Sherlock murmured finally, watching with barely veiled interest as Hermes ventured out from John’ legs to sniff at his shoes.

“Oh? And what do people _normally_ say?”

John replied, still irritated by Sherlock’s earlier comments about Hermes. No matter how much he could clearly deduce about them both, it had been incredibly rude to insult the small dragon – in John’s opinion there would never be anything _normal_ or _boring_ about Hermes and he resented Sherlock’s implication that Hermes wasn’t a good match for John.

“Piss off?”

Sherlock suggested, smirking slightly as John gave a bark of laughter. It was hardly surprising – if Sherlock just approached all the new Aviators and insulted their partners before deducing everything he could about them the way he had with John. The only shocking thing was that someone hadn’t run him through by now.

“I still think you owe Hermes an apology, however.”

John added, fixing Sherlock with a steely glare. Sherlock heaved a sigh but nevertheless bent down to where Hermes had been about to take a bite out of his shoe. Hermes guiltily withdrew his jaws, peering up at Sherlock and trying to look as innocent as possible.

“Yes, you are quite right John. I don’t doubt that whilst Hermes is hardly impressive right now, when he is fully grown in a few weeks he shall be terribly fierce. My apologies, Hermes, I meant no offense.”

Hermes seemed to contemplate this apology seriously for a few moments, before biting down on Sherlock’s shoe. Sherlock reeled backwards and the little dragon withdrew, looking unaccountably pleased with himself, retreating behind John’s legs as Sherlock staggered to his feet. John found himself mollified by Sherlock’s apology; the Aviator seemed to understand human emotion just fine but clearly struggled when dealing with the results of his less-than-polite actions. It seemed to John that Sherlock didn’t fit in any more than he did; perhaps the Captain could become a potential friend and ally in this place where John knew nothing and no one.

“A few weeks? He’ll really grow that fast then? Will he…I mean, how big will he grow, exactly? Is he a middleweight or-”  

“Lightweight. Winchester’s never grow very big – perhaps 7 or 8 tonnes at the most – but they are fast and mobile and are usually used as couriers. You’ll probably commence active duty as a courier as soon as Hermes is able, in all likelihood. They are also used in battle, however, as escorts to the formations – smaller dragons can be quite vicious, should the need arise.”

John swallowed the lump of disappointment that surfaced as he realised he probably wouldn’t be flying Hermes into battle – although he had no desire to place the dragonet in danger, John was first and foremost a solider. It would be difficult to be reduced to the role of a glorified postman whilst his comrades were off fighting the French. Sherlock noticed his reaction and clearly deduced the reasoning behind it.

“If you think the job of a courier is any less dangerous than my own or any other Aviator in a formation then think again; in actuality courier dragons are more likely to be attacked and killed than any other. The role isn’t an enviable one, I’ll give you that, as couriers are targeted by enemy dragons seeking to intercept the vital information they carry and couriers always fly solo meaning they don’t have the protection which is afforded to dragons which fly in formation.”

John thought he saw a flash of – concern? Definitely _something_   - in Sherlock’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly that he thought he must have imagined it. John could certainly see why the role of a courier was hardly one to aspire to – he found himself concerned for what the future held for Hermes. He was such a young and inexperienced dragon and although neither of them had been given a choice about whether or not they wanted to fight in this war, John had made the decision years ago to protect his country; the fact that he had been drafted into the Aerial Corps hadn’t changed that. Hermes, on the other hand, had made no such decision and John found himself wishing there were time to allow the young dragon to make up his own mind – but if what Sherlock had said were true then they would be sent into danger in just a few short weeks.

“You should probably remove that chain. I’m not sure what you were told about what to do after the hatching but the danger of Hermes going feral has passed, and the first flight is so important for a young dragon.”

John looked doubtfully at the other Aviator for a moment, finding himself overcome with the irrational fear that Hermes would simply take off and never be seen again. After all his resentment about being torn from his old life, he found himself totally unable to imagine a future without Hermes in it.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock laughed, seeing John’s expression, “he’s bound to you now, he won’t just fly away. And speaking of flying, I need to go – drills to run, you know.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before giving John such a piercing look that he felt it down to his bones, for one moment feeling like the other Aviator could see right through him.

“You _aren’t_ ordinary, Captain John Watson. Not ordinary at all…”

John clasped hands with the Aviator and watched him go, thinking as he did so that he had perhaps just met one of the most extraordinary people in the world. There were rumours that Bonaparte was not only a master tactician who never forgot a single word he read but that he was also a genius. Whatever the rumours, John was pretty sure that Sherlock Holmes would give Napoleon a run for his money.

~~~*~~~

John thought that Hermes’ first flight went well, considering. Flying came naturally to him, and although John had often found his heart in his throat as Hermes whizzed violently around the barn, the little dragon hadn’t hesitated for a moment. He hadn’t been airborne for long – perhaps a quarter of an hour at most – and soon returned to John’s feet, begging for more food. This forced John, out of necessity, to leave the barn with Hermes in tow; the dragonet was highly curious about the world outside his barn and stared with wide eyes at everything.

“But they’re so _big_! Will _I_ grow that big one day?”

Hermes asked, staring in awe at the tight formation of dragons which could be seen running drills in the sky over the covert. Johns smiled fondly at the little dragon; with his plaintive chocolate-brown eyes and deep purple colouring John thought he was the most handsome dragon he had ever seen. The fact that he had only seen a handful of dragons conveniently slipped his mind – he doubted he would ever favour any dragon over Hermes.

“No, little one, but size isn’t everything you know; I myself am a less-than-average height and it never stopped me.”

John replied, eyes tracking the progress of the formation as it banked sharply to the left. His eyes fixed on the largest dragon in the centre of the formation, a heavyweight with black scales that faded into midnight-blue at the wings and flanks, with curious dark blue circles on its underbelly and towards the bottom of its wings. He couldn’t see from this distance who its Captain was, and the massive harness construction on its back blocked most of his view, but he was sure that it was the same dragon he had seen earlier – Libertas, she had said her name was.

“Do you…not want me?”

John stopped in shock, staring down at Hermes who was pawing at the ground like it was the most interesting thing he had seen and was avoiding eye contact. John sighed and knelt down beside his partner, bringing his hand to Hermes’s jaw and drawing it up so he could meet his eyes.

“Of course I want you, Hermes! What’s brought this on?”

John was concerned, wondering if it was perhaps something that Sherlock or himself had said that was causing Hermes to doubt his loyalty – perhaps rightly so, John had hardly been jumping for joy since Hermes had hatched. He looked at the little dragon and felt his heart sink – he hadn’t even been an Aviator for a day and already he was failing his charge.

“You were a solider, you said. You fought in many battles. But I…I heard what that Aviator said -  you can’t ride me into battle because I am too small, not like those dragons up there. If I had been one of them then you would be able to fly me into battle – if you want to, I do not mind if…if you go back to be a warrior in the Army.”

John was stunned into silence for a moment, staring in horror at Hermes as he realised the depth of the dragonet’s fears. How stupid of him, to forget the fact that dragons had personalities of their own and deserved as much respect and attention as humans. In fact, Hermes needed more of his attention now than any human alive – he had just hatched and knew very little of the world, was in all actuality frightened and daunted, his continuity lying with John. And he was failing him – failing him when the dragonet relied on him so much.

“No, Hermes, I would not trade you for any dragon or battle or Army in the world; I guess you could say that you _are_ my world now. I’m not going to lie and say that I do not mourn the loss of my old life, but it is behind me now and I do not regret answering your Call – I would never have resisted it even if I could have. I can’t promise you that I won’t need reminding of that sometimes, but I _can_ promise that you have my life, such as it is, and my service, for as long as you want it.”

John watched as Hermes stared at him steadily for an agonisingly long time, clearly judging how serious John was. He could well understand Hermes’ doubts – his brother had loved alcohol far more than he had loved his family, despite making many vows and promises to the contrary. John never wanted Hermes to feel that way – like he was second best to John’s future or career.

“Alright then, and my life and service are yours as well – just as long as you remember that you are _mine._ Although, I do wish I was bigger.”

John laughed at Hermes’s envious stare, remembering from what Sherlock had said that Hermes wouldn’t grow very large – perhaps as big as a pair of draft horses, at the most.

“If you were to grow any bigger, you would have to accept a crew as well as me onto your back – I for one am rather glad I don’t have to share you.”

John reassured Hermes, watching with amusement as Hermes practically _preened_ under John’s praise and huffed, walking ahead fast enough that John had to run to catch up.

“John! John Watson!”

John turned to see a slightly overweight man running towards him, red of face and cheery in demeanour. Hermes stared in open curiosity at both the man and the dragon which followed close behind, a middleweight dragon that even John recognised – a Yellow Reaper, the most common dragon in Britain and one of its principle breeds. This man was clearly an Aviator then, although his age seemed to suggest he was a teacher rather than on active service.

“Yes, hello. And you are…?”

John watched as the Yellow Reaper bent it’s head – the size of Hermes’s entire body – in a kind of bow, prompting John to return it politely, feeling stupid when the Aviator seemed bemused by his actions.

“My name is Mike Stamford – and this is my partner, Laetitia. We’ve been sent to give you the grand tour and answer any questions you may have – plenty, I’m sure!”

John found himself smiling back at Mike, warming to the Aviator’s cheery attitude. Hermes seemed to be having some kind of silent conversation with Laetitia, which ended in the Yellow Reaper snorting forcefully enough to send Hermes’ rolling backwards.

“Ah, yes – I should perhaps mention that amongst dragons it is usually size and strength that determine your dragons' standing amongst them – and therefore yours within the Corps. Winchesters are the smallest breed of dragon, despite their speed, which pretty much leaves them – and you – at the bottom of the pile. Sorry about that mate – don’t take it too hard though, Laetitia isn’t much better off; Yellow Reapers are so common.”

John frowned at this news, finding it hard to believe that the Aerial Corps would follow such a primitive means of determining rank amongst Captains – surely experience and age should have some bearing on individual standing within the Corps? He asked Mike as much, and was dismayed when the Aviator shook his head ruefully.

“I’m afraid not – the dragons won’t listen to the Captain of a lightweight in battle, no matter how many years of service that Captain has put in – although at least the Captain of any dragon outranks a dragonless Aviator.”

John fretted over what this might mean for Hermes in the future – would he be bulled, harassed by the larger dragons? He hadn’t considered Corps politics when he’d joined up and found himself totally unbothered by the fact that he was probably one of the least influential officers in the Corps – his worry was all for Hermes.

“What does that mean for Hermes?”

Mike seemed confused by his question for a moment, before understanding lit his kind eyes and he was quick to reassure John.

“Oh, it doesn’t mean all that much really – it’s actually more important for the heavyweights. There’s kind of an unwritten code amongst the dragons that you shouldn’t pick a fight with a dragon that is smaller than you, so you don’t have to worry about – Hermes, was it? – getting into many fights. Couriers fly alone and act independently in battle, so you don’t have to worry about that – mainly, it’ll mean that Hermes will be one of the last dragons allowed to eat at the feeding grounds, that’s all – and there’s always more than enough for everyone.”

John was slightly mollified by this, although he noticed that Hermes seemed slightly overwhelmed by all this. He made a mental note to go over everything he’d learned today with the little dragon, not wanting his partner to fall foul of dragon etiquette so early on. He guessed the one good thing about being a courier was that they would spend very little time at the covert – he’d never been one for small talk and conversation, and the fact that he was clearly as low a rank as a Captain could possibly be, whilst also being an outsider, would probably not endear him to his fellow Aviators.

“That formation up there – who’s leading it?”

John asked as they made their way across the covert. The barns where the smaller dragon eggs were housed were situated in a series of barns towards the edge of the property – a country house which had been donated to the Corps for its use many years previously. The manor itself was where many of the Aviators kept their rooms, although Mike informed him that many Aviators chose to sleep outside with their dragons if the weather allowed it.

“Hermes may seem small now,” Mike joked as they made their way across the well-maintained lawns, “but just give him a couple of weeks. Try getting him into your room when he’s double the size of a shire horse!”

Mike now looked into the sky at John’s question, snorting slightly as he made out the distinctive shapes in the formation as it spun and dived, seemingly at random, through the sky.

“That would be Captain Sherlock Holmes’ formation. He harnessed Libertas, the large dragon in the centre. She’s a Celestial you know – a rare Chinese breed; they were furious when our envoys turned up demanding they release her into our care. The middleweights flanking her are Malevolentia and Insignis – Yellow and Malachite Reapers respectively. The larger dragons towards the back are Jupiter and Flora – a Parnassian and a Longwing. Flora would have a formation of her own, only she hasn’t long been harnessed and Molly simply isn’t ready to have a formation of her own.”

John was stunned speechless for perhaps the hundredth time that day, finding himself gaping at Mike, suddenly scared to ask.

“Molly? I assume that’s the name of a woman? Does that mean…?”

Mike seemed bemused by John’s shocked silence and half-stammered question and John noticed Laetitia huffed out an amused snort before answering for her partner.

“You forget, rider mine, that this Captain is new to our ways. Yes, Molly is indeed a woman – and an Aviator. Longwings are picky with their riders and only ever Call to females, although other breeds also Call women from time to time.”

John was silent as he digested this news, finding himself deeply disturbed by this news. He wasn’t a chauvinist – far from it, he had always admired the female gender and had often reflected that a woman protecting what she cared about was perhaps the fiercest of warriors – however he was uneasy about the thought of fighting alongside the fairer sex. He didn’t rightly know how he felt about allowing a woman to fly into battle whilst he was reduced to delivering messages – no matter how dangerous that role seemed to be.

“Are there…many woman, in the Corps?”

His voice came out slightly strangled as he spoke directly to a dragon for the first time, thinking with no small amount of amusement how strange his life had become – up until a few days ago he had thought of dragons as nothing more than animals, subservient to their Aviator’s will. Mike Stamford seemed to be having a hard time containing his mirth, leaving his dragon to deal with a slightly put-out John. It was hardly surprising he was uncomfortable, John reasoned – after all, in the world he had come from a gentleman would never allow a lady to come to harm.

“Oh yes, there are many. There are barely any here in the coven at the moment, however – every dragon that can be spared is at the Chanel or accompanying the fleet. Sally and Nebula are here at the moment though – she’s a courier too; a Greyling recently returned from Africa.”

John shook his head in disbelief; it was hardly surprising that the Corps were so secretive and standoffish to outsiders – if word got out that they were allowing women to fight on the frontline and travel, _alone,_ to Africa then there would be a public outcry. Then again, next to talking to a dragon perhaps fighting alongside a woman would be a small adjustment to make. John yawned widely and laughed when Hermes did the same, clearly still exhausted from the hatching and subsequent flight.

“You must be tired. I’ll show you to your room and leave you to rest for today – we can talk more about your duties and the coming weeks in the morning. Most of the rooms are shared between two Aviators, although I wouldn’t be too worried as there are so few Aviators in the covert at the moment you’ll likely have a room to yourself.”

John smirked at this, deciding not to mention the fact that for the last eight years he’d shared quarters with hundreds of men and as such had little concept of privacy – having a shared room between two was a luxury. John found himself watching as the formation wheeled lazily through the sky, clearly cooling down from the more dramatic manoeuvres. He felt a pang of loss that he would never be a part of such a thing – even if Hermes was used in battle, Mike had said it would be independent of any formations – and he missed the close companionship he had enjoyed with the Army. Then he looked down and remembered that the bonds he’d shared with his fellow soldiers had been replaced by a much more meaningful one.

“Let’s see, where have they put you? Room 221B…221B? Hmm, now who else is in that room again? You know, I can’t seem to-”

Mike froze, such a comical look of horror on his face that John found himself grinning despite himself. He wondered how bad the other Aviator would have to be to have upset a man as genial as Mike Stamford.

“Oh God, not that weirdo.”

Laetitia rolled her eyes, giving John and Hermes a look that was akin to pity. Mike, to his credit, gave his dragon a stern look before grimacing and shrugging apologetically, waving one hand vaguely towards the sky.

“As far as I was aware, Sherlock Holmes had requested that he be allowed his own room – his brother is one of the Senior Captains and he is so…unusual that he’s been left alone up until now. He mostly sleeps outside anyway and uses it for his experiments – but I guess with both you and Molly being Called so close together there’s no room anywhere else…”

John felt a silent thrill go through him at meeting the enigmatic Aviator again, remembering how he had given John a _look_ and proceeded to inform him that he wasn’t ordinary. One thing was for sure – if Sherlock was always like that, then it might be best to leave his sword behind.

John had to half carry Hermes up the two flights of stairs that lead to his new room – and was pleasantly surprised to see that his trunk had been placed here in preparation for his arrival. When he had left the base in South Africa he had hastily thrown his belongings into a seaman’s chest and left them at Dover, certain that he would never see the thing again. However, somehow it had made the journey across the country unscathed and John was delighted to find his collection of military history books, as well as his clothes and correspondence, safe and untouched.

Hermes, for his part, seemed too tired to be curious about his surroundings and John smiled affectionately as the dragonet yawned widely. John felt crushingly tired himself, despite the fact he had slept on the way to the covert, and hoped that he wasn’t coming down with anything. The room itself was relatively small, with two single beds pushed against opposite walls and two identical desks side-by-side at the far end. Most of the floor space was taken up by chemistry equipment – flasks, syringes and glass containers holding many colourful compounds. John realised this must have been what Mike meant by ‘experiments’ and found himself even more intrigued by Sherlock Holmes.

 He stripped off his shirt and socks, climbing into bed half dressed, something he would never have _dreamt_ of doing in the Army; he reasoned, however, that he would soon be outfitted in Aviator green and so would have no further use for his military uniform. The thought made him sad, however it was soon forgotten as Hermes climbed enthusiastically onto the bed and stretched out along John’s side, using his chest like a pillow. John smiled and curled one arm around the dragonet, drawing comfort from his warmth. It wasn’t long before John found himself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the deep, even breaths of his partner.

~~~*~~~

Sherlock

“It hardly seems fair, though!”

Moriarty called over to Sherlock, yelling to be heard over the wind. Sherlock rolled his eyes and did his best to ignore the Aviator who flew to his left, his Malachite Reaper keeping pace with Libertas’s slow wing beats. He had been forced to endure his formation’s questions about the newly appointed Aviator, listening with some interest as they decided amongst themselves that it was _hardly fair_ that such a man had been Called, and by a Winchester too.

“If you paid more attention to the drill and less attention to gossip, perhaps you wouldn’t be such a low-ranking Captain, Jim!”

Sherlock shouted back, irritated that both Moriarty and Moran were slightly out of sync with each other and therefore Sherlock. It was bad enough that they insisted on talking whilst running the repetitive drills that took up most of their time whilst at the coven without it also distracting them from the manoeuvres. Jim let out a bark of laughter and his dragon, Malevolentia, looked over at Sherlock with disdain. The Yellow Reaper was large for her breed and a spiteful creature – she disliked Sherlock immensely and had actually broken dragon etiquette and skirmished with Libertas, much to Sherlock’s distress. Although Libertas was by far the bigger dragon, with the Divine Wind to boot, she had a gentle personality and like all heavyweights was reluctant to pick fights with smaller dragons. This had led to her getting a rather nasty scratch down her right flank; Sherlock had been so furious he could barely speak, and had gone straight to Mycroft, telling him he could either discipline the Yellow Reaper or watch as Sherlock enacted his revenge. Strangely enough, the physical confrontations had stopped after that, although Malevolentia still took every opportunity to let her displeasure be known.

Sherlock signalled the formation to manoeuvre left, looking down through his flying goggles as he did so to see Mike Stamford escorting John across the fields from the clutching barns. He couldn’t make out John’s expression from this distance; Hermes was barely a small speck on the ground, although Sherlock fancied that John was amused about something. After he had left the barn he had found himself irrationally fascinated by the new Aviator and had found it difficult to hold his tongue as his fellow Aviators judged the man before they had even met him. If they had, they would know he was nothing at all like the ungrateful, mean-spirited individual that Hawthorne had painted him as – Sherlock found it easy to sympathise with John about his life being turned upside-down; it had happened to them all, only it seemed easy for them to forget that as they rallied around Hawthorne. They had decided it was a matter of _them against us_ – John was an outsider, Hawthorne was an Aviator. _Ordinary people are so stupid._

“I suppose we might as well call it a day. With Sebastian and Jim being as abysmal as they are right now we can hardly get any worse!”

Sherlock ordered, gritting his teeth as Anderson mistimed his turn and almost crashed into Molly, who had to jerk wildly to avoid him.

“Anderson, I understand that you are _totally_ incompetent but at least have the courtesy to avoid endangering Jupiter and Flora. Heavyweights don’t grow on trees, you know.”

Sherlock groused, aware that he was being petty but not caring in the slightest. It was simply _unbearable_ to have to put up with this disruption to his formation – several of his lightweights had been sent to the Channel, whilst Molly and Anderson had been sent to run drills with him in the meantime; Molly because she needed the experience and Anderson because his dragon had been injured and needed the time to recover. Meanwhile, _Mycroft_ was flying over the Chanel with Lestrade – it was simply unbearable that Regina and Ignis were permitted to hold the port of Dover whilst Sherlock was left twiddling his thumbs in the covert. Libertas’s Divine Wind would be such an _asset,_ if only Mycroft would stop worrying about upsetting the Chinese and set Sherlock loose on Villeneuve – let him try and shelter his fleet from Libertas’s deadly shockwave!

Sherlock ordered the formation to descend, turning to Victor and watching critically as he ordered the rest of Sherlock’s crew to prepare for landing. There were some twenty people who served under Sherlock, although not all of them were on board Libertas at once – not that there wouldn’t be room, only at any one time at least two or three were injured or had duties to perform on land. He tried his best not to get too involved with the crew, as annoying as they could be, and was only close to Victor – and only that out of necessity. He was pleased that Trevor seemed to have them under control – God only knew Sherlock dreaded the idea of having to punish any of them. Once they had landed, other members of his crew came out to remove Libertas’s harness – no mean feat considering her size and bulk – whilst the rest disembarked and headed off to clean their equipment and prepare for dinner or some other _boring_ task. He honestly didn’t care how they spent their free time as long as they left him alone and were ready for practise the next day.

“I think I’ll go and see how that experiment with the frogs is going, Libertas.”

Sherlock informed his dragon, watching as she rolled her eyes and watched him with affection. For Libertas alone would Sherlock ignore his rules about _caring_ and authority – if he was answerable to anyone, it was to the dragon who had saved his life and his sanity more times than he cared to remember.

“Of course. Come and tell me about it afterwards?”

Sherlock heard the plaintive note in her voice and found himself cursing the small-minded dragons who, although they were never outwardly rude to her, made her self-conscious and shy. As one of the largest dragons in the Corps – barring Regina and she was at the Channel – Libertas enjoyed the great privilege of being the first dragon to eat at the feeding grounds. However, the ruff around her neck and the tendrils that sprouted from her snout were very particular of the Chinese dragons, making Libertas worried about her appearance and not very confident with the other dragons. Although even the other heavyweights were scared of her Divine Wind and would never even _think_ about attacking her, they didn’t make her feel very welcome and although Sherlock desired no company for himself, he had hoped that Libertas would fit in more. Instead, Sherlock spent most of his free time discussing his experiments with her or reading her scientific journals – although she hadn’t much interest in science she did love just listening to his voice. It soothed her, apparently.

“Naturally.”

Sherlock promised, reluctantly withdrawing as the ground crew started the laborious process of removing the harness. He quickly made his way up to 221B, coming to an abrupt halt as he noticed the door was slightly ajar. As far as he was aware, the other Aviators were bemused by his fascination with science; although they thought him slightly strange, perhaps, they weren’t interested in his work and had so far left him alone. Why would one of them feel the need to invade his space? The answer became clear as saw the shapes curled up on the spare bed. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of John Watson, clearly asleep and looking much younger and far less troubled, and Hermes, curled around his partner and snoring heavily.

“ _Mycroft.”_

Sherlock hissed, freezing as John stirred and mumbled something unintelligible, before setting back into a deeper sleep. Sherlock could, of course, continue with his plans to conduct his experiments and make an awful lot of noise in the meantime; however he found himself unaccountably touched by the sight of the newly bonded pair and scowled as he flexed his hands impotently. This was _his space_ and yet John Watson looked like he belonged there _, this would not be borne._ Sherlock scowled even more, realising his mood was working up into a full-blown sulk and finding himself not at all guilty about that fact. He stalked from the room, resenting the fact he stalked quietly and shut the door soundless so as not to wake John Watson up, decided he would go to Libertas and complain, loudly, to the one person who always listened to him. Never mind how comfortably John Watson had fitted into his room – into his _work,_ into his _life_ – there was no way he could remain where he was. And that was _final._

~~~*~~~

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 22 nd May 1804, 8am_

Sherlock was aware that his face was as dark as thunder and his expression about as welcoming as a snowstorm – but did people _really_ have to give him such terrified looks? He had just been informed, via a letter from _Mycroft_ , that John Watson had nowhere else to go, that Sherlock’s was the only free room and that he was just going to have to deal with it. _Deal with it?_ Like it was some minor inconvenience and Sherlock was being unreasonable. He hadn’t stopped fuming all morning and had accompanied Libertas to the feeding grounds with little grace, snapping at Victor when he tentatively enquired what was wrong.

He watched with little interest as Libertas circled ahead, the other dragons perched on and around the many overhangs in the cliffs surrounding the feeding grounds, where many terrified sheep and cattle had been collected for the event. She circled lazily for several moments before diving and catching a cow between her claws, landing with little grace and tearing into the terrified animal. The other dragons shifted restlessly, impatiently waiting for the silent signal that meant they could go and eat – the heavyweights first, followed by the larger middleweights and finally the lightweights. Sherlock  would have turned away, only he noticed a dark streak against the sky and frowned.

Hermes, the young dragon clearly unaware of the feeding-ground etiquette, was gleefully chasing a lamb across the terrain, snapping at its tail but getting nowhere. Sherlock looked to his left and saw John with his hand over his eyes, clearly appalled by his dragon’s behaviour. Sherlock grimaced as Anderson’s Parnassian, Jupiter, growled and took off, circling ominously above the dragonet. Sherlock knew that the large dragon would never harm the youngster – would only scare him enough that he would learn the rules – but John was clearly highly distressed and was attempting to make his way down into the feeding grounds, only being held back by Mike’s efforts.

 Just when it looked like Jupiter would catch the dragonet in his claws, Libertas looked up with a snarl, muzzle stained red with blood, and _roared_ at him, ruff standing threateningly on end and hissing at the Parnassian. Shocked into stopping, Jupiter flapped uncertainly for a few moments before returning to the cliffs, a stunned silence then descending over the grounds. Libertas growled softly before striding over to Hermes, who was staring sadly after the lamb, which had successfully evaded his attempts to eat it. She picked up the lamb – no more than a mouthful to her – and dropped it in front of Hermes, who murmured something Sherlock couldn’t hear before devouring it greedily. Libertas then returned to her own meal with a flick of her tail and the other heavyweights entered the fray, giving Hermes a wide berth – clearly they had no idea what to do about him.

Neither did Sherlock.

Dragons respected strength and size and were not very attached to their young – regardless of age, what Libertas had just done showed a strength of regard beyond the realm of an older dragon protecting a younger one – it hinted at a strong friendship or respect, something the little Winchester had surely not earned. Sherlock looked over to where Mike was nursing a black eye and John was clearly apologising profusely, and found himself laughing. Loudly. The Aviators around him gave him looks of utter horror – _dear Lord he’s finally lost it_ – but Sherlock didn’t care. It seemed that neither Aviator John Watson nor his partner were boring – for some reason they were neither normal nor ordinary. And _that,_ Sherlock reasoned, was not only interesting but worth giving up his space for. Perhaps there was more to the pair of them than met the eye after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! This chapter took SO MUCH LONGER than I thought to write - I was going to end it with John but Sherlock was like 'NO, I MUST SPEAK!'  
> There are some people I have thank for this chapter - first and foremost every person who has read, commented, given kudos and taken a chance on such a long WIP - I appreciate you all. Secondly, to my sister, identical twin and partner-in-crime, who has proof-read every word of my chapters. This would be a very different story without her - she is reading War Studies at University and hits me over the head when I say something out-of-context.  
> Here are some facts for those of you who are interested in the background :)
> 
> 1\. I'm going to add another chapter to Dragons of Temeraire giving a list of each character from the BBC!Sherlock, their dragon, when they were born and other information - useful for people who like to get the dates in their heads! Also gives information on the relative ages of the characters - made up for this fic, I assure you :P
> 
> 2\. For those of you not familiar with ACD Sherlock Holmes, John Watson did indeed have a brother who died before the series - that's where the pocket-watch deduction came from too!
> 
> 3\. Some of you will probably be like 'Ah! How dare John be such a male chauvinistic pig!' but remember that in 1804 it was unheard of for women (in the Western world) to fight on the front lines. It would therefore naturally be deeply shocking for poor John - don't worry, I get the strangest feeling he'll come around!
> 
> 4\. Did men wear socks in 1804? I honestly don't know - although if anyone does please let me know and I could change it. It's a minor detail but I do like to get these things right! x.x
> 
> Feel free to review and comment - I want to know what you think about the characterisation and balance between Temeraire!verse/BBC!Sherlock. On top of that, I'm always ready to listen to constructive critisism so fire away ;)  
> Finally, THANK YOU for reading this fic and giving it a chance - there's much more to come and I plan to enjoy every moment of it! See you next update :D  
> EDIT: Going to be away for a couple of weeks so the next update will take slightly longer :)


	4. Clash over the Channel

John

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 22 nd May 1804, 9am_

__“I really am sorry about that – I don’t know what came over me. I could go and fetch you some ice…”_ _

__John found himself apologising to Mike Stamford for perhaps the hundredth time, well aware that his face was_ _ _red_ __with embarrassment; a fact that was not helped in the slightest by Mike’s right eye which was rapidly going black and his own bruised knuckles. The kind-hearted Aviator merely smiled genially and laughed off John’s offer to get some ice, merely remarking that during his heyday in one of the formations he had suffered much worse than a black eye. John was slightly mollified by this although it did nothing_ _ _to_ __diminish his feeling of shame; he was a gentleman first and foremost and had been raised never to strike an unarmed man – especially one who was on_ _ _his_ __side. His only defence was that the moment he’d seen that huge heavyweight descending upon Hermes his brain had been focused on one thought and one thought only:_ _ _protect._

__“It’s fine. Really John, it certainly isn’t the worst reaction an Aviator’s had to their partner being in danger. Forget about it – I certainly have, although my face may remember it for some time!”_ _

__John grinned reluctantly, rubbing the back of his head and trying to ease his discomfort. He was grateful to Mike for his actions – if he hadn’t held John back he would have tried to enter the feeding grounds, steep slope or not, and would probably have cased irreparable harm if he had done so. The incident had only served to remind John of how inexperienced he was and how little he really knew about life in the Aerial Corps. When he mentioned this to Mike the older man chuckled and clapped John heartily on the back, almost causing John to topple over; the Aviator was stronger than he looked._ _

__“Don’t worry about that Captain, you’ll know more than enough when the trainers are through with you; I can promise you that! Now, how about we go about getting our own breakfast, eh? Hermes will probably want some time to digest his meal and get to know the other dragons at any rate.”_ _

__John cast a reluctant look at the small dragon, who was crunching the bone of a cow which was much too big for him, getting nowhere but clearly enjoying himself immensely. Several other lightweights were wandering over curiously, clearly eager to meet the new dragonet. Picking out Laetitia from the small crowd of dragons, John found himself wondering what manner of dragon Hermes would turn out to be; would he be prideful like Sherlock or modest like Mike, genial like Laetitia or patient like Libertas? He found himself looking forward to the day when Hermes and himself could have in-depth discussions on military history, or perhaps go through one of John’s medical journals. Still, he found himself loathe to leave his charge and this clearly showed on his face; this and fact that he suddenly found himself not at all hungry swayed him to remain where he was._ _

__“I know I haven’t eaten in…Christ, hours – certainly Hermes has been better fed than I have. But I’m really not hungry and if anything were to happen to him whilst I was gone…”_ _

__John found himself suddenly terrified that Hermes would slip away and John would never see him again; an irrational fear but one which refused to relent. Mike looked John over swiftly, gently giving John a nudge towards the manor, clearly unwilling to take ‘no’ for an answer._ _

__“That’s one of those things that you’re going to learn that I was talking about. I guess I’m as good a person as any to tell you; I_ _ _am_ __a teacher here after all.”_ _

__Mike seemed thoughtful as John slowly started to walk away from the feeding grounds, looking back every so often in case Hermes changed his mind or had some kind of panic attack without John present. As reluctant as he was to leave the young dragon, he was aware that he was all Hermes had ever known; if what Mike had said was true, it was important for Hermes to start to socialise with the other dragons if he was going to be fully grown in just a couple of months. John looked sidelong at Mike as they made their way up to the manor, where Mike had already informed him that breakfast would be waiting. Apparently the housekeeper Mrs Hudson, whose husband had been an Aviator before he was shot down over the Channel, was one of the best cooks around._ _

__“When you touched the egg and answered Hermes’ Call, you recall that you were left alone with him for a time? That was about more than just allowing you to form a bond of attachment with him; when we answer the Call we are bonded by more than service, more than duty to our partners – we are bonded in a way that transcends any other. The bond allows us to be aware of our partner, to feel what they feel, sometimes, and to always, always know when the other is injured or, God forbid, dying.”_ _

__John stopped dead, fighting  back the urge to laugh in Mike’s face, aware that it would be incredibly rude of him to do so; but the mere idea of it…_ _

__“You’re talking about…what, magic? I can…er,_ _ _magically sense_ __if Hermes is depressed?”_ _

__Mike seemed to find this amusing in some way, eyeing John with something akin to pity._ _

__“Just you wait until he’s going through puberty! But no, seriously, I wouldn’t go as far as to call it magic, but there is a connection between dragon and Aviator that no one is able to explain. It’s amazing and wonderful and utterly, completely terrifying, to find your path intrinsically bound to that of another. Think about it, John; you were utterly exhausted yesterday, yeah? Even though you’d slept for hours on the way here? And just now, even though you were ravenous moments ago and haven’t eaten in hours you suddenly aren’t hungry anymore, right after Hermes has eaten his fill. That is what I’m talking about and it can be overwhelming at first-”_ _

__“Try unbelievable,” John interrupted, finding himself wondering if the Corps’ reputation was based partly on truth, “I’m a doctor and I’ve never heard of anything of the sort.”_ _

__Mike seemed unperturbed by John’s dubious attitude and John found himself in the uncomfortable position of being looked at with pity; clearly Mike was convinced he was telling the truth and felt sorry for John at the inevitability of him being proven right. John decided the best thing to do would be to ignore the situation entirely; he didn’t wish to alienate one of the few people to go out of their way to help him, but neither did he see himself able to go along with this idea of a_ _ _magical bond._ __Utterly ridiculous._ _

__It was then that he turned around to see Captain Sherlock Holmes behind him, eyes fixed on John and staring in a way which was pretty unnerving._ _

__“Is there, ah, any reason for Sherlock to be looking at me like that?”_ _

__John muttered in an aside to Mike as they walked through the doors of the manor, through the arced entranceway and into a wide ballroom, which had been fitted with wooden benches, clearly to serve as a dining room for the Aviators. Most of the benches were empty, the majority of the Aviators who resided in the coven being at the feeding grounds, but the Aviators who were there stared at John with curiosity and some degree of hostility._ _

__“What – oh. Well, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably another one of his experiments, you know?”_ _

__Mike laughed uncertainly, clearly nervous even talking about the tall Aviator, shooting him a skittish look before pulling John into one of the seats, leaving momentarily to place a plate of steaming eggs and bacon in front of him. Thanking the other Aviator gratefully, John glanced up to see the other Aviators glaring at him slightly, whilst Sherlock had taken a seat in the corner and was still staring at him like he was trying to bore a hole in John’s head. John sighed, taking a mouthful and egg and resigning himself to a long, long couple of months._ _

__~~~*~~~_ _

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 5 th July 1804, 10:30am_

__John had faced the prospect of a slow and painful death via infection when he’d been shot with barely a change in expression. He had merely shrugged when his brigade had been hopelessly outnumbered during a skirmish in Spain. And had he even hesitated for a second before he’d committed himself to a dangerous solo scouting mission in South Africa? No, he had not. And yet right now, John found himself literally quaking in his (new) boots as he contemplated leaving 221B and stepping out to ride Hermes for the first time._ _

__Hermes had hatched roughly nine weeks ago – nine long, arduous weeks which had also been some of the happiest of John’s life. Watching the young dragon mature from a gambolling child into a gangly adolescent and finally a graceful adult had been a joy. Hermes was fully grown now, levelling off at 8 tonnes in weight, a deep royal purple in colour. He was quite long for a dragon of his breed, John had been told, his tail in particular and he had swirling brown markings on his back and hindquarters that reminded John of the ocean._ _

__Hermes was bold and utterly without fear and had displayed recklessness in his younger days which had driven John to distraction, so fearful was he of the dragon sustaining a life-altering injury from which he would not recover during the crucial development period. Age had tempered his recklessness to produce a character, in John’s opinion, of the uttermost courage and loyalty. His partner was avidly interested in military history and as John had dreamed about on that first day they had spent many hours together discussing tactics and strategies, John demonstrating using whatever items were on hand the many battles and skirmishes he himself had fought in; Hermes had insisted that John explain, in detail, every second of every encounter. Hermes had come to see John as ‘his warrior’ and proudly boasted to the other dragons of his apparent prowess in battle and fierce bravery; John merely shook his head and allowed the dragon his antics. Besides, the problem didn’t lie with the other dragons  who, on the most part, were ambivalent towards John. No, the problem lay with his fellow Aviators, who still, mostly, treated John as an outsider and went out of their way to ignore him._ _

__There were, thankfully, notable exceptions to this. Mike Stamford had taught John most of what he knew about being an Aviator; his duties to his country and to the Aviator Corps, but most importantly to the dragon who had become John’s world. He had learned, to his chagrin, that Mike had been right about the bond, (he would never speak to anyone of the hell that had been Hermes discovering female dragons. John had been confused for days and shuddered at the mere thought of going through anything like it again). After the first few weeks John had been able to separate his emotions and sensations from Hermes’s and he had been able to breathe a hearty sigh of relief; never again would he ever dismiss the bond as magical. Mike had explained that acclimatising to the bond was like getting into a bath that was slightly too hot; at first it was uncomfortable and all you could feel was the heat, but eventually you become accustomed to it._ _

__John had also found surprising allies in the younger Aviators in the Corps; both those who had harnessed dragons of their own and those who served aboard the dragons based in the covert. John reasoned this was because they hadn’t had the time to build up the same resentment as some of the older members, who John had discovered had mostly been friends of Hawthorne’s and blamed John for the man’s situation. John had learnt much about what he might expect in terms of duties from the other lightweight Aviators, most of who were in their late teens and had harnessed Greylings or Grey Widowmakers._ _

__And then, of course, there was Sherlock._ _

__John had been sharing a rooms with the man for weeks and yet hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with him beyond a cordial ‘good morning’ or ‘hello’, mostly because after a week or so Hermes had gotten too big to comfortably fit into through the doorway and John had spent almost every night outside with his charge – not altogether comfortable due to the British weather but John considered it a small price to pay. The most he’d had to put up with was the odd experiment that left the room uninhabitable for a few hours, usually due to some kind of dubious vapour that John considered to be unsafe despite Sherlock’s insistences to the contrary. The problem was that wherever John went – whether it was learning the complex flag system that the Aerial Corps used to signal to one_ _ __another in battle or carefully going through the motions of making, caring for and learning to use the harness that John would be using today to ride Hermes for the first time – Sherlock would turn up. Not every time and he never stayed for long, but he usually showed up at least once a day, staring at John with an intensity that made him distinctly uncomfortable. When he’d tried to explain this to the other Aviator, he’d been given the explanation ‘experiment’ and ignored; when pressed he had declared he didn't 'feel things' the way that 'normal' people did, and John’s feelings or concerns were of little consequence to him._ _

__The last few weeks had been a crash-course in Aviator life and John had found himself swamped by all the information he was required to learn; Hermes, by contrast, had sucked up the information like a sponge. Apparently the first few weeks after a dragon hatched were the most vital for learning because after that point very little information could be retained but up until then they had an almost unlimited capacity. Hermes had proven an exception to this rule as well; even now he was still capable of learning new things, something only previous noted in Chinese breeds, and was teaching himself French. This had prompted the Corps to look into Hermes’ sire and dam, telling John later that they had been perfectly ordinary and nondescript. John had the sneaking suspicion_ _ __that the Celestial was involved; Hermes rarely spent a day without seeing Libertas and had, to John’s disgust, developed an almost reverential opinion of Sherlock._ _

__Whatever the cause, everything they had done had lead up to this moment: John, taking his first flight on Hermes and joining the Corps proper. And he couldn’t bring himself to exit, was cowering in his_ _ _bedroom_ __for God’s sake, whilst everyone waited for him outside. He paced from one end of the room to the other, straightening his new uniform self-consciously and occasionally sending small glances at the new flying goggles and long oilskin coat which lay on the bed. John was no coward, his previous actions had proven that and yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet._ _

__There were two reasons for this, the first being that for John this was the final step to being an Aviator and not one he wished to take lightly. He refused to be ashamed of the fact that although for most people the Aviator’s Vow was simply something to be said and cast aside, for him it was worthy of consideration; John_ _ _always_ __took his promises seriously. He had recently received correspondence from Mary, informing him that he would always have her affection and regard, but affirming his assumption that she would sever all ties with him and also from some of his comrades in the Army, who had extended their sympathies and condolences. These had hammered home to John that his old life was over and he was, essentially, going to be bound by duty to an organisation full of people who hated his guts and with whom he would trust his back to in combat. The second reason was the one which caused John’s face to flush with shame; he was, to put it bluntly,_ _ _uncomfortable_ __with the idea of heights. Whilst on board a ship he firmly kept his feet on the deck and refused to climb the rigging - he had been informed that riding a dragon was like being on top of a ship of the line during a fierce gale. This did not fill John with confidence._ _

__Through the bond that stretched between him and Hermes he could sense his partner’s excitement; Hermes had been flying for weeks but this was his first chance to share the skies with John, an experience which was so important to the dragon. John clenched his teeth, focusing as hard as he could on the fact this wasn’t just about him, it was about Hermes and duty and doing the right thing. John snatched the coat and goggles up, self-conscious of the moss-green uniform that would soon become a symbol of his service. The uniform was not unlike that worn by Navy officers, apart from the colour of course, with white breeches, comfortable leather boots and a new shoulder epaulette system which had bars to distinguish between the various ranks of Corps officer. As a Captain John was fairly high up the chain, even if he had realised early on that as a highly unpopular lightweight Captain he had very little influence; this suited him fine, he had never been one for playing politics._ _

__As John emerged into the light he saw a small crowd had gathered; the whole thing was really very regimented and ceremonial. Molly was also taking the Vow at the same time as him; despite being Called six years ago, she had not come from an Aviator family and it had taken some time to convince her family to release her into the Corps, even after she had hatched her Longwing, Flora. As John made his way towards where Flora and Hermes were waiting, fully harnessed and eager to set off, he noted several familiar faces in the crowd; Sherlock, naturally, as well as Mike and Jim Moriarty, who John only knew because his dragon had picked a fight with Hermes just before he was fully grown; although the other Aviator had apologised profusely John thought there was no way a properly-raised dragon would be as malicious as his Yellow Reaper was – not without help._ _

__“Ah, Captain Watson. I had begun to fear we might have to send out a search-party; now that you are here we can begin. I shall endeavour to keep this brief.”_ _

__John raised his chin slightly but refused to blush at Captain Anderson’s harsh tones – as a Senior Captain he was presiding over the ceremony and John found himself wishing for another Captain –_ _ __any other Captain. Ever since the other’s Parnassian had threatened Hermes when he was still a dragonet John had been distinctly wary of him, perhaps unfairly. John was comforted by the familiar weight of his sword at his side, ceremonial at the moment but would soon be exchanged for the real thing as he flew the skies above the Channel, coming to an unconscious parade rest and looking back at the other Aviator neutrally. Anderson sniffed just once more as if to accent his disapproval before moving on to the brief words which were said before the Vow, John found that adrenaline flooded his system and he clenched and unclenched his fists in eagerness. This was it, the moment that weeks of preparation had led up to._ _ _Don’t fuck it up, Watson._

__“Answering the Call is about more than duty to your country, important though that duty undoubtedly is. It is about more than duty to your monarch although you undoubtedly owe him your loyalty. It is also about duty to the partner who will become your lifelong companion, duty to the Aerial Corps because although you left family behind to answer the Call, the Corps will become your family; finally it is also about duty to your fellow Aviators, to protect them with the knowledge they will protect you in kind, to bleed for them knowing that they will move heaven and earth to save your life or avenge your death. Do you Vow to uphold your duties, no matter what the cost?”_ _

__It was a rousing speech and although John could have done without Anderson’s snide tone and sarcastic eye-rolls, he appreciated the sentiment behind the words. Although he doubted that his fellow Aviators were jumping for joy at the prospect of him being ‘one of the family’ the truth was it was the only family John was ever likely to have. Hermes was positively glowing with pride (John had noted the dragon tended to take these things to heart) and was preening, the light reflecting off the purple in his scales rather grandly._ _

__“This do we Vow.”_ _

__John murmured the correct response along with Molly and the two dragons, already thinking ahead with trepidation. Hermes’s excitement was clearly growing; although he knew of John’s fears (he could hardly hide anything from the astute dragon) he had promised to, in his own words, fly ‘as straight as possible’. For some strange reason, this did nothing to make John any less nauseated._ _

__Flora had been training for years to be a dragon of the Corps so this was a big moment for her and as a heavyweight she was in full harness, her full cohort of around fifteen Aviators lined up on the ground awaiting Molly’s order to embark. John, on the other hand, had harnessed Hermes himself in the harness he had designed and helped make with the help of a couple of other lightweight Aviators. As a messenger on a small dragon where was no need for the large, cumbersome structures worn by Libertas and the other heavyweights; instead, Hermes wore a leather contraption similar to the saddle of a horse, only with leather straps to secure John in place and many, many pouches and saddlebags, both for the numerous parcels, packages and sensitive correspondence that John would be carrying and also for his own personal affects, the multitude of possessions that would make up his ‘pack’ for the many trips over the Channel. John had the right to request a fellow Aviator to give him a ‘leg-up’ onto Hermes for this first flight, but had been unable to find time alone to ask Mike Stamford and there was hardly anyone else he could have asked._ _

__And so it was that when Molly gave the order, in a slightly quivering voice, for her crew to board Flora, John expected to fumble his way into the harness alone. So he was surprised when he noticed Sherlock Holmes standing on Hermes’s right, tugging at the buckle to check it was tight and_ _ __conversing in quiet tones with the Winchester. Once John was within hearing distance Sherlock turned to him, icy-blue eyes glinting with something that might be mistaken for warmth as he obviously, and unsurprisingly, deduced John’s nerves. The only surprising thing really was that no one else had noticed._ _

__“Ready to become an Aviator proper, Captain Watson?”_ _

__Sherlock asked, the Aviator clearly amused at John’s predicament. John swallowed, his throat unaccountably dry all of a sudden, glancing nervously at Hermes and laying a hand on his friend’s snout._ _

__“Ah, well…perhaps I should mention I have an…issue, with heights. Well, not an_ _ _issue_ __as such, more of a-”_ _

__“Whatever it is I can guarantee you that it is both stupid and boring, sentiments I have found abundant in most of the population of the Corps but not in you – or perhaps your courage has failed you?.”_ _

__John was startled by Sherlock’s harsh tones and he knew enough to know when someone was baiting him – knew and still fell for it. He was a war hero, damn it; he’d been stranded in the Egyptian sands with nothing but a pistol with three shots in it and one pouch of water and had still completed his task, on time and without a single mistake. He shouldn’t have to put up with shit from ignorant, arrogant sods like-_ _

__Sherlock Holmes was laughing quietly and after a moment John joined in, mocking himself for falling for so obvious a trick. Smiling at the other Aviator he found himself confused – why had this man, a man who by his own admission didn't feel emotion in the same way that ordinary people did, gone out of his way to ensure that John wasn’t alone today? It didn’t make any sense and John found himself searching Sherlock’s eyes for the answer. Within seconds of his doing so, however, Sherlock seemed to withdraw within himself, a shutter pulling closed on the amusement that had twinkled within the depths of those cold eyes, leaving them barren and unfriendly. Sherlock turned and pulled on the strap again, although it was clearly tight enough, a clear sign that the conversation was over. John swallowed hard, squared his shoulders and raised his chin before stepping into Sherlock’s cupped hands and swinging into the harness, attaching the straps on the right and left of his thighs to secure himself in. He looked down at Sherlock, who suddenly seemed very far away from the ground; John had never been more grateful to have been Called by a lightweight._ _

__“Ready?”_ _

__Hermes twisted his neck to face John, warm brown eyes shining with excitement as Molly took off first, Flora needing some time and space to achieve take-off. John swallowed, struck by the sudden urge to call the whole thing off. Then he looked into Hermes’s eyes and realised that his partner wanted to share this with him, this joy of flight, and John had never been able to deny the dragon anything. John shrugged into the oilskin coat and attached the flying goggles, feeling stupid but mollified by the fact that he would be grateful for both once he was in the sky._ _

__There was barely any warning, one minute Sherlock was stepping back to clear the way and the next the wind whipped into his face with such force that John cried out, clutching at the leather pommel in_ _ __front of him reflexively as they gained altitude. John didn’t risk looking down, instead focusing on Hermes’s wing-beats as they powered though the sky, soon catching up and overtaking Flora._ _

__“Go on, John, have a look!”_ _

__Hermes had to shout to be heard over the rush of wind and John swallowed reflexively before steeling himself to take a peek. Just a quick look and then away; he would tell Hermes it was amazing and never let his partner know the extent of his fears – for what kind of Aviator, what kind of partner, was scared of heights? But when John looked he found himself unable to look away; instead of the dizzying whirl of light and colour he had been expecting there was instead rolling green fields, gentle hills and towering mountains.  There was the beauty of lakes nestled within forests of trees, the picturesque pastures of cultivated land swarming with domesticated livestock. John remembered with fondness the long conversation he and Hermes had had about which sheep were okay to eat and which were not; it had taken some time for the dragon to grasp that not all cattle were provided solely for his benefit. John found himself craning his neck for a closer look, letting go of the pommel and letting his breath out in a whoop of admiration._ _

__How had he ever been afraid of_ _ _this_ __?_ _

__This was the world of dragons, a world that they shared with their human companions and which was now the scene of a bloody and bitter conflict. Whoever gained supremacy over the skies would win the war – that much was plain – and John found himself, for the first time, aware of the immensity of the task that lay before them. After a couple more weeks of aerial combat training John would be released into active duty; either Hermes or himself could be injured, even killed during their duties. John found himself worrying for the safety of his partner, fast and powerful though he undoubtedly was, he realised that Hermes had made the Vow same as him. From the moment Hermes had sent out his Call he had been set on this path; he had merely been waiting for John to catch up. Now that he had, it was time to stop hesitating and making excuses; he was an Aviator and Hermes was a fighting dragon of the Aerial Corps and they were going to be taking to the skies above the bloody, war-torn seas of the Channel._ _

__~~~*~~~_ _

_Somewhere over the English Channel – 13 th December 1804, 3:30am _

__“Bank to the right, Hermes! To the right! We need to lose them or we’ll never get to Dover in time!”_ _

__John’s voice was hoarse from yelling, his body stiff from hours spent in the harness as they raced to outpace the French formation that had followed them from Calais. They were as desperate to avoid the French dragons as the French dragons were to send them careening into the waters of the Channel – because the information John carried was important, was vital to the struggle against Napoleon. John was carrying a declaration of war. The Spanish, who up until this point had been sitting on the fence about which side to support, had been dominated by Napoleon and had thrown in their lot with him. It was crucial that the Home Office became aware of this before the Spanish launched their naval and aerial attacks – perhaps the Navy could withstand a surprise assault, but John knew that the Aerial Corps certainly could not._ _

__“They have a Fleur-de-Nuit, John! They could be anywhere – in front of us, next to us or right on top of us!”_ _

__John could hear the panic in Hermes’s voice and gritted his teeth in anger as his partner pushed forwards in their desperate charge for the relative safety of Dover port. Once they were in the vicinity the two British formations would be able to provide them with back-up, but until then they were on their own. This wasn’t the first time they had been attacked in the half a year they had been on active service – on one occasion they had grappled furiously with a French Pascal’s Blue. It was only due to the breed’s naturally skittish nature that they had been able to escape unharmed. As it was, John felt the warm wetness of blood seeping through his right arm when he had been skimmed by musket shot – apparently the French Midwingmen were as well trained as their British counterparts._ _

__Hermes had almost stopped mid-air upon feeling the bite of pain through their bond, but John had snapped at him to keep flying or they would both be fish-fodder, damn it. With the French formation hopefully at their backs John took the time to reach into one of the many pouches attached to the harness and bandage the wound as best he could – there was no way for him to see in the darkness to examine it now and he simply couldn’t risk a light. If they had managed to lose the French formation it would not do to give away their position to the enemy. For a brief time Hermes flew on unchallenged and John felt himself relax slightly – surely Dover could not be far away now and the safety of the port beckoned._ _

__He should have known it was too good to be true._ _

__Out of nowhere a French dragon exploded out of the night and slammed into Hermes’s side, clearly aiming to drive them into the ocean with its superior weight. It was true that most breeds of dragon could swim, some better than others, due to the air-sacs which allowed them to fly, but if they hit the water it would be almost impossible to take off again before the rest of the formation caught up with them. They’d be sitting ducks, easily picked off by the French Midwingmen. Hermes was fast – very, very fast, much faster than the French dragon which John identified as a__ Pou-de-Ciel – but the enemy dragon had caught them by surprise out in the open and had the weight advantage. Hermes furiously beat his wings and just skimmed the surface of the ocean, wingtips dragging in the water, before flipping and engaging the French lightweight head on. It was their only chance at getting a clean run at Dover – neutralise the Pou-de-Ciel, and quickly, before making a dash for safety.

Hermes roared out a challenge to the larger dragon before valorously clashing with it at full speed, jaws snapping at its vulnerable neck and wings. John in turn drew his sword just in time to protect Hermes from taking a nasty stab to the eyes, grinning viciously and swiping at the French Captain. He didn’t attempt to stand, knowing that with the way the dragons were rolling and spinning through the air he would be jarred around too much, instead trying to best to disable the enemy Captain whilst the field dipped and swayed constantly. Pou-de-Ciel, John remembered, were adept at diving and weaving, which became apparent when the enemy dragon disengaged only to dive underneath Hermes and snap at John with vicious fangs. John slashed at its snout in retaliation and was rewarded with a spurt of blood, splashing himself and the harness in red. The French Captain cried out and swiped viciously at Hermes’s side in retaliation and John felt the answering flare of white-hot agony as Hermes hissed in pain.

“Bloody fucking-”

John swore viciously at the French Captain, urging Hermes to withdraw so he could at least take a look at the wound. His partner refused, however and bit down courageously on the larger dragon’s neck, refusing to let go even when he was scraped by its claws. John was so preoccupied fretting over Hermes that he lost concentration and received a gash to his chest for his foolishness, as well as vicious cuts to his forehead and cheek. John wrenched his attention away from Hermes and concentrated on the French Captain, who was clearly flagging and as worried about his dragon as John was about Hermes. There was no time for sympathy, however – if John gave this man an opening he would send them both falling out of the sky, their vital message lost with them. He narrowed his focus and parried a blow that would have beheaded him before feinting to the left. The Frenchman, like many who he had fought before, was momentarily bewildered by the fact that John was left-handed and clumsily went to intercept John’s strike, giving him ample opportunity to stab him deeply in the shoulder. For good measure John cut one of his leather straps, watching in satisfaction as the enemy Captain yelled in agony and clutched his right shoulder, listing in the harness. Completely distracted, the Pou-de-Ciel howled in fear and disengaged from Hermes, thinking of nothing but to protect his partner.

“Now Hermes!”

John yelled, conscious of his friend’s pain through their shared link. Hermes wheeled around and became a blur through the sky, heaving in great gasps of air as he struggled to recover from the fight as well as maintain such a high speed. John took the opportunity to look over at Hermes’s flanks, raked by the claws of the Pou-de-Ciel – mostly flesh wounds – the only worrying wound being the gash left by the French Captain. John was aware of the white-hot burning in his chest and a quick glance showed that the slash was bleeding quite profusely. Not for the first time, John found himself cursing the lack of a crew – on the larger dragons there were always people dedicated to patching up wounds who worked even whilst the dragon was in motion. As it was there was no chance of them being able to pause long enough to even bandage the wounds – let alone use the stitches he suspected they both needed. It was a tense few minutes, with John fretting about pursuit from behind but reluctant to ask any more of his injured companion, whilst Hermes kept twisting his head to look back at John, clearly greatly concerned for him.

The lights of the mainland grew closer and John could have cried in relief when he spotted a British formation, smartly formed and surrounding a colossal red beast that John knew to be a Regal Copper. He cried out and waved his uninjured hand, realising belatedly it was still grasping his blood-stained sword and sheathing it hastily. By the time they reached the allied formation Hermes was visibly slower, wings beating slightly sluggishly and head drooping.

“Well, if it isn’t Captain Watson! Ran into a French patrol, did you? I assume whatever you’re carrying must have been of some importance if they dared come so close to our blockade.”

John would know that voice anywhere – he looked up to see the face of Captain Mycroft Holmes, eyes obscured by his flying goggles. His dragon dwarfed Hermes, a great creature shaded in ruby and bronze. John felt his shoulders sag as the adrenaline which had kept him going this far receded and he was suddenly aware of every single ache and bruise – and of Hermes’s too. It was with great relief that John recounted the news to Mycroft, handing over the document one of Britain’s secret service had passed on to him. He made it as brief as possible, aware that what little strength Hermes had left was rapidly fading, as was his own. Within the space of a few moments the formation was escorting them back to shore whilst a couple of the middleweight crew members tended to Hermes’s wounds and John found himself thinking longingly of the covert. He suspected he would be returning there to bring them the news and found himself smiling at the prospect of seeing everyone again. And if his smile was wider at the prospect of meeting again with a certain Aviator Captain, well – there was no one but Hermes who would ever know the truth.

~~~*~~~

Sherlock

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 15 th December 1804, 2:30pm_

__Sherlock was_ _ _bored_ __. Flying was boring, his experiments were boring; even_ _ _Libertas_ __was being boring, having finally grown tired of Sherlock’s foul mood and gone to practise her aerial manoeuvres. Alone. The least she could have done was take him with her._ _

__The heart of the problem was that Sherlock knew how desperate the situation over the Channel was becoming – too much water and too many ships, with too few allied formations to keep the tenuous hold that they__ currently had. Soon, something was going to break – either the blockade would fall and Villeneuve would sail his fleet into the Channel unopposed or one of the heavyweights at the Channel would fall, meaning the French Armée de l’Air would swarm Dover and overwhelm them by sheer numbers alone. Sherlock knew all this – and he could do _nothing._ His brother, in all his wisdom – along with most of the British House of Commons, House of Lords and the Home Office – was terrified about upsetting the Chinese. Relations with the East had always been unstable and Britain could not afford for the Chinese to start supporting the French. And so Sherlock waited and he waited and he _waited,_ getting more tense and irritable with every bit of bad news from the Channel.

“Argh!”

Sherlock shouted in frustration, throwing his violin bow halfway across 221B, before regretting it and picking it up carefully, as if in apology. He ignored the fact that he had almost grown used to John’s silent presence in the room – even if he hadn’t physically been in it the signs of his having been there had been _everywhere._ But John had been gone for weeks, running sensitive messages up and down the coast, able to help whereas Sherlock was forced to sit here, in this covert in the middle of nowhere as Napoleon wreaked havoc all over Europe. Libertas was perhaps the most powerful dragon in the world – certainly the most powerful dragon in the West – and yet they had to ration her out, use her sparingly and tiptoe around large confrontations that might upset the Chinese. Libertas herself grated at the delay – her Divine Wind could do so much to help break the French lines – it sowed as much fear as it did damage, if only they could utilise it properly. But no – instead Sherlock was here whilst even a newly-harnessed John Watson was out there, _doing something._ Something that wasn’t _boring._

“Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock!”

Sherlock ignored the banging on his door and the sickeningly cheerful voice that heralded Mike Stamford’s arrival, instead choosing to saw viciously at the strings of his instrument, the resulting sound discordant and irritable. Exactly the way that Sherlock felt.

“Hey Sherlock, you could just answer your door you know!”

Mike opened the door anyway, flinging it open wide and drawing Sherlock from a sulk and headlong into one of his black moods. Really, the Aviators should have learned by now to leave him _alone_ when he asked for it.

“Leave the room, Stamford. There isn’t enough room for all your stupidity – I’m trying to _think_!”

Sherlock seethed, practically hissing at the unfortunate Aviator who, in his defence, was hardly fazed by his obvious bad mood and ploughed on to say whatever inane gossip he’d come to impart.

“Incoming courier, apparently he’s pretty banged up. I thought you’d be interested seeing as he’s your roommate.”

Sherlock froze at Mike’s words, brain working furiously as he formulated ideas before viciously rejecting them. He could, of course, ignore it and carry on. It was hardly any business of _his_ what the ex-Army Captain got up to on his boring, silly missions, but Sherlock found himself rejecting this idea instinctively. He could wait here and go and see his roommate at a later date – perhaps when he’d been fed and his wounds treated, that was certainly the most sensible option – wait until all the nastiness was over and then pay him a polite, brief visit. But Sherlock didn’t _want_ to take the most sensible option, had an irrational desire to see the lightweight Captain again.

 He glanced over at a leather-bound journal hidden under a mountain of paperwork on his most recent experiment on earthworms. The book was titled: _Captain John Watson; a study_ and Sherlock had written, in detail, as much as he could about the development of Hermes and his partner, convinced that there was something he was missing – especially when the Winchester continued to display an ability to learn and adapt far beyond the usual time. He found himself pondering over the seriousness of John’s injuries and was surprised that the thought of him never being able to study the other Aviator was most disturbing. With a very put-upon sigh, Sherlock thrust his violin into the hands of a very confused Mike Stamford – his default emotion, in Sherlock’s opinion – and went in search of the ex-Army Captain.

~~~*~~~

“I don’t give a fuck about ‘proper procedure’, give him something for the pain, _now.”_

Sherlock smiled in relief as John Watson swung out of the harness, the first words out of his mouth clearly filled with a mixture of worry for his companion and exhaustion. If Sherlock had calculated correctly the pair of them had barely stopped since Dover, the white bandages around dragon and Aviator stained slightly with fresh blood. When he’d seen the Winchester circle overhead, flying slightly lopsidedly and far, far slower than was normal his heart had given a funny leap in his chest. The sight of a John Watson healthy enough to swear and demand medication for his partner was a relief.

“You heard the good doctor. Ensure that both Hermes _and_ Captain Watson are given the appropriate medication.”

Sherlock fixed the medical team with a steely glare until they obeyed, one or two clearly thinking about asking for a signature and a detailed description of how exactly they had been injured and thinking better of it when they saw John’s black expression. After the wounds had been checked, redressed and both Hermes and John, the latter with a slight protest, had been given pain medication Sherlock was able to see John clearly for the first time, eyes noting the nasty-looking scrapes on his forehead and cheek as well as the gash across his chest and right arm.

“I’m glad to see you alive and – relatively – unscathed, Captain.”

Sherlock stated, his eyes checking Hermes over and noting the little dragon was battered but not broken, clearly tired but his injuries weren’t bleeding through the new bandages. Sherlock had noted the pattern of the wounds and clearly the pair had tangled with a Pou-de-Ciel, something which was confirmed by John’s tired smile and his following words.

“Thanks. We nearly didn’t make it – ran into a French Pou-de-Ciel who almost dragged us into the ocean.”

Sherlock quickly hid the flash of envy he felt at John’s words, trying to put aside the fact that had he been there then Libertas would have squashed the enemy lightweight like a bug before it could go anywhere near the Winchester and his Aviator. It was then that he saw something flash across John’s face, something he couldn’t deduce and he stared hard at the other Aviator as he pulled down his flying goggles before withdrawing a crumpled envelope from his pocket.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I’m not here for a social visit. I’m here to inform you that Britain is now at war with Spain, as of yesterday, and to bring you your orders.”

He grinned slightly viciously at him and Sherlock felt a wild, answering grin of his own spread across his face as he reached over to take the envelope. For some reason there was something about John that made him want to be reckless and impulsive and terribly, impossibly clever.

“I guess you’re going to be heading for the Channel sooner than you thought.”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back! :D Had a great time in America seeing what life's like on the other side of the pond - but I only landed this morning so I'm kind of jet-lagged :/  
> Anyways, thank you to everyone who commented, gave kudos and read this fic whilst I was gone - I hope you like this chapter although I kind of hate it a little - no idea why but still XD Please comment on anything and everything - how did people feel about the battle scene?  
> Thanks to catinahat for proof-reading despite being even more tired than me! :D  
> Just a few points about this chapter for those after a bit more information:
> 
> 1\. Really sorry about the delay in publishing a timeline - the formatting keeps getting messed up so I'm thinking about just publishing a condensed timeline of just the Napoleonic Wars for now without adding the events of this fic.
> 
> 2\. As mentioned earlier, Naomi Novik had a system of bars on the shoulders to determine rank within the Corps, although the distinction between the Captain and a Senior Captain would have been an internal one - who's dragon was the largest, strongest or had any additional powers.
> 
> 3\. Someone mentioned they were slightly confused about my use of 'size' and its relationship to 'weight'. Although this in mentioned in the companion fic Dragons of Temeraire I feel this could be spelt out plainer so here it is:  
> When I use the term 'size' I am referring to the dimensions of the dragon; its length from snout to tail and from wingtip to wingtip if discussing wing length. This is measured in feet. When I use the term 'weight' I am referring to its physical weight in tonnes. Bear in mind that dragons are incredibly light for their size, particularly the smaller dragons. :)
> 
> 4\. Spain declared war on Britain on the 14th of December 1804. I decided to include John in the picture and have him race desperately to warn Britain in time...but bear in mind it was a much more laborious process than I'm making out.
> 
> 5\. Finally - time gaps! I promise not to use these as much as I had originally planned because I dislike the feeling that you miss out on large parts of character development, but it was necessary this time in order to get John into the skies without cheating on the timing, something I didn't want to do.
> 
> If you have any thoughts on the time leap or any comments at all on the fic, please don't hesitate to say - I'm always looking to try something new and adapt my style :) See you next update!  
> P.S. For those of you who witnessed the DISASTER the first time I attempted to publish this please ignore it - Word decided to have some fun with the formatting.  
> EDIT: Thank you to neverwhere who pointed out the the term 'sociopath' hadn't been invented yet!


	5. Blood on Ice

Sherlock

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 16 th December 1804, 7:30am_

Sherlock had long since come to terms with the fact that he simply didn’t _feel_ things the way that other people did. There was no denying his connection with Libertas – even if he had wanted to, their bond was impossible to ignore – but he had always believed that without her in his life he would have been without any emotional connections at all. Which was why he was so surprised that upon reading the most recent letter from his brother a spike of pure, intense rage flooded through his system.

It was true that he had been feeling frustrated of late; the repetitive drills were not enough to hold his attention and with bad news coming in from the Channel every day he had been eager for action. However, logically he should be pleased that Mycroft was keeping Libertas and him here – after all, Sherlock’s principle concern was that she remained safe. Mycroft’s letter was grim in both its news and its finality – Sherlock was to stay in Loch Laggan, secreted away from the world whilst his fellow Aviators continued to fly to their deaths over the Channel. And it was _hateful._

“My goodness, are you sure? I had thought such things to be impossible!”

Sherlock gritted his teeth as Libertas’s voice carried over to where he’d been sitting, sulking, against a tree-trunk, his correspondence scattered around him. It was a chilly winter’s day, but Aviators quickly became acclimatised to the freezing temperatures of high-speed flight and spending many hours outdoors with their companions – Sherlock barely felt it anymore. John Watson, on the other hand, was shivering violently where he was huddled against his dragon, the ugly red of the cuts on his face and pale skin a sharp contrast to his usually healthy complexion.

The stubborn man refused to leave his dragon’s side – even though he was clearly the more injured of the two and winced heroically whenever he was required to move. Hermes was lying on his uninjured side and regaling Libertas with the stories of their journey – the wistfulness in his partner’s voice was almost enough to drive Sherlock over the edge. Libertas had been denied the chance to see as much of the world as she should have been because of his brother and his stupid rules – and if some of his anger was due to the fact that he disliked the idea of John and Hermes desperately fighting some bigger French lightweight that Libertas could kill in a second then he would never say.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock didn’t bother turning his head, wondering if Mycroft had put Mike Stamford up to following him around everywhere he went. He saw John look up and grin stupidly wide, ridiculously pleased to see the older Aviator. John even went as far as to get up and walk over to Sherlock, clearly intending to engage Mike in conversation.

“He was looking for me, you know. Not you.”

Sherlock muttered, ill-tempered, the last thing he wanted right now was for Mike to settle in for a long chat. John only smiled, clearly not put off at all by Sherlock’s bad mood; in fact he greeted Mike like one would an old friend – Sherlock scowled as he was aware John’s welcome to _him_ hadn’t been anywhere near as warm.

“As nice as it is to see you, John, I actually have a question for Captain Holmes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the formality, eyes scanning over the middleweight Aviator and feeling his heart sink as he realised why Mike must have come to him. Mike Stamford was one of the most unflappable people Sherlock had ever met – as irritating as the man could be he wasn’t prone to hysterics and had taken the bad news from the Channel much better than Sherlock. The problem, however, was that all of the Aviators were aware of what Libertas could do – how much of an asset she was – and tended to blame Sherlock when one of their own got killed whilst he remained grounded.  Mike had come to ask whether this would be the day that Sherlock left the covert, finally providing much-needed relief for the two Regal Coppers who were single-handedly holding Dover port.  

“I know what you want to ask, Stamford, and the answer is _no._ No I am not being sent to the Channel, no I am not leaving the covert and no my brother didn’t mention when that might change.”

Sherlock pre-empted the inevitable question, knowing as he did so that Mike wouldn’t take it well. He was, after all, a trainer at the covert and had been forced to watch many of the Aviators he had trained get sent to their deaths. He knew exactly what Libertas was capable of and had once personally appealed to Mycroft for Sherlock to be deployed – which was how he had ended up in Egypt last year. It was _frustrating_ – Sherlock tried not to think about the encroaching feelings of anger and despair – that he was left behind, looked over and resented. And it wasn’t even his choice.

“But Sherlock, surely they can see-”

“Oh, they _see_ Stamford. They just don’t observe – they think that Libertas is as much a threat to our own ships if she were to be deployed at the Channel and my brother is doing nothing to convince them otherwise. Especially because if we were to be deployed it would mean flying into actual _danger_ , something Mycroft seems to think would scar me greatly.”

Sherlock seethed, all the more angry when he noticed John’s slight wince as he shifted position. Whilst it was true Sherlock had never embraced the Aviator way of life – or, indeed, been embraced by it – there was a duty of care that he felt for his fellow Aviators. It was a bond forged in bloody skies and ruthless conflict, one which he hadn’t even been aware existed until he had seen John half fall off his dragon. Sherlock was a heavyweight Aviator, literally at the top of the tree, and yet he found himself unable to protect his comrades – and that was something that simply could not continue.

Mike, for his part, looked shattered. Sherlock was aware that two of his students had been taken down over the Channel in the past few months, one of them only fifteen years old. Whilst it was true that Sherlock was no stranger to battle, he found himself disturbed by the idea that, had circumstances been slightly different, it could have been Hermes flying home with no rider to accompany him.

Dragons, in particular the heavyweights, were prone to extreme distress and despair upon the death of their companions. The lightweights only tended to live for perhaps 200 years and during that time rarely tolerated another Aviator. Mid-to-heavy weight dragons on the other hand could live for hundreds of years and during that time it was beneficial to both the dragon and the British nation if they accepted another rider. They were much more likely to tolerate an Aviator who was a relative of their previous companion – a son or a daughter – and this was something Sherlock worried about constantly. He didn’t have the capacity or the inclination to father a child and worried that if something were to happen to him – whether it be in a scuffle over the Channel or far off in the future – then Libertas would be left all alone. The process of ‘Recalling’ as it was known by the Corps, was similar to the Call in that there was the mysterious light. However, if the Recall was left unanswered then there would be no negative effect on either dragon or Aviator and the bond never resurfaced. It seemed that the initial hatching was what triggered the bond between dragon and Aviator and that it was something which could never be replaced.

“I just don’t know how much longer we can hold out.”

Sherlock glanced up to see Stamford looking distinctly worried and stressed, for once looking every one of his 45 years. It was easy to forget sometimes, the man had such exuberance, but he had been flying for almost as long as Sherlock had been alive.

“Captain Holmes and Captain Lestrade do their best, but they’re stretched so thin they can’t possibly hold out for much longer…”

This last was muttered as Mike walked away, clearly ready to break the news to his partner, who had been very fond of the Aviators shot down over the Channel. Sherlock knew the situation was almost as bad as Stamford was implying – the last time he had seen Mycroft had been just before John had come to the covert and he had looked exhausted. He had left Regina to fly unmanned whilst he frantically tried to liaise with the Home Office and the strain of being away from his partner whilst she was in danger had been plain to see – it was the main reason Sherlock hadn’t protested being told to sit and stay. As skilled and experienced as Lestrade and Mycroft were, with Villeneuve out from behind the blockade it was only a matter of time before Napoleon started sending formations onto British soil. Two Regal Coppers were a significant threat, but without at least another full formation patrolling the coast then they would drop from sheer exhaustion. And then Bonaparte would pounce.

“I’ve been ordered to resume light duties.”

Sherlock turned to stare at John, who was leaning back against Hermes who had wondered over, clearly curious about what they were talking about and worried about his partner.

“No, you can’t.”

Sherlock blurted out the words without thinking about them, the instinctive need to protect overriding his good sense. The idea of John flying back out into danger when he was clearly not recovered from his previous mission was unacceptable. John looked, if possible, even more amused by Sherlock’s answer than he had at his moody comment from earlier.

“It’s my job, Sherlock. I have a duty-”

“A duty to get yourself killed?”

Sherlock was aware of the fact his voice had risen but couldn’t bring himself to care. Why was it that it was John Watson’s duty to fly into danger and possibly death but not Sherlock’s? Sherlock was more capable, had been flying for longer and was a better Aviator than John and yet he was grounded whilst the small Winchester and his rider braved the skies over the Channel. Sherlock had been building up to this for a while and he honestly had no idea why this was the final straw, yet it undeniably was. He looked at the smaller man before him, who so readily accepted possible death for his country and the brave dragon at his side and thought: _I will not allow them to come to harm again._

“No. A duty to my country, Sherlock. I was a solider – I killed people. And now I’m a solider again, of a different kind, and I made the Vow with the knowledge that I would do whatever it took to fulfil that duty.”

Sherlock spotted Libertas off to one side, clearly intensely focused on the conversation; Sherlock was well aware how attached she had gotten to the young Winchester – she had been nearly frantic when she had seen his drunken-looking flight into the covert. Hermes could easily go twice as fast as she and yet he often chose to slow down when they flew together – a sign of the affection the Winchester held for her as the breed was known to love reckless speed whenever they flew. Since John had flown in yesterday, Libertas had taken Sherlock to one side and explained on no uncertain terms that if Sherlock didn’t demand to be allowed out into the field then _she_ would.

The last thing the Aerial Corps needed right now was for a dragon to display its intelligence to the general public – it would cause mass hysteria if they became aware that dragon ruled over man as much as man ruled over dragon. Of course this gave Sherlock just the excuse he needed – if he went to Aerial Command and told them that they either included him in the war effort or Libertas would involve herself – and him by extension – on _her_ terms then they would buckle.

But not yet, not without warning Mycroft first. All of his brother’s actions – despite how annoying they were – had been done with Sherlock’s best intentions at their heart, and Sherlock owed him more than to go behind his back. He tried to warn Libertas with his eyes against saying anything just yet – it was hardly the time and there was something about John’s words which had rung true. Duty. It wasn’t something which Sherlock had ever given much thought to, but recently he had been forced to change his way of thinking – he had allowed himself to be side-lined, using the excuse that he had never asked to be an Aviator and that it suited him fine to be kept out of danger. Now he was paying the price and was finding that watching his comrades fall and die around him, seeing them take off and never return, was more than he could bear.

“Well…I’ll just, head off then?”

John sounded uncertain and Sherlock realised he had been staring at him for some time. Clearing his throat and looking away, Sherlock tried not to think about the fact that John had been wounded before – today could be the day that he took off, never to return. He tried telling himself that John would be running assignments close to the covert – and unless the French were invading then he would probably be safe. It didn’t help when he saw Libertas’s stricken expression – it hurt her pride that a small Winchester, especially one who she cared about, was allowed to fly into danger whilst she was not.

“John!”

Sherlock couldn’t help the word, feeling his face go red as John turned around from where he’d been walking away, raising one eyebrow in enquiry. Hermes, having said his farewells to Libertas, was watching Sherlock curiously, his great head butting John playfully in the side as he did so. John immediately winced and staggered slightly, causing Hermes to apologise profusely and Sherlock to take a few steps forwards.

“I-be careful. It would be…not good, if you were to get hurt again. You-you help.”

“With what?”

John seemed sceptical, clearly suspicious and seemingly under the impression that Sherlock had some kind of ulterior motive. Sherlock was aware that this conversation was making Libertas quite uncomfortable – she wasn’t used to him acting in this way. _She_ was the one who complained that they were never allowed out from the coven, she was the one who fretted about the other dragons and Aviators and it was usually Libertas who petitioned Mycroft for more freedom. Sherlock had never cared – the only thing on his mind was her safety and there had been some comfort for her in that. No matter what, Sherlock’s first thought would always be for her and her alone. But now there were other things he cared about – his brother, whose safety Sherlock constantly thought about, and John who had wormed his way into Sherlock’s life so quietly that he hadn’t been aware of it until it was too late.

“Everything.”

Sherlock blurted out, swallowing hard as John’s frown deepened, Hermes a solid presence at his companion’s back. Libertas snorted loudly, shooting Sherlock a reproachful look as John opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly at a loss for words, before giving Sherlock a militarily-stiff nod and marching away, shooting him concerned looks as he did so. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel slightly irritated – was he really usually so cold that a single act of concern would be so shocking? – but also confused. He had known John for only a short period of time, when he had lived in 221B during his training, and during that time had rarely spoken more than a few words to him. And yet the well-spoken, yet quietly competent, Aviator had become someone Sherlock would mourn.

And that wasn’t something Sherlock had thought he would ever feel. Not since he had seen Mycroft for the first time after he had been injured on a job, covered in bandages and bruises, and vowed never to care about another person enough to mourn them when they were gone. If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes had learnt it was that everyone – willingly or not – would eventually leave him behind.

~~~*~~~

_Aerial Command, England – 19 th December 1804, 3:20pm_

“I need to speak to my brother. Now.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and refrained from tearing into the small-minded individual before him. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t this…person’s fault that his brother was back on active duty and couldn’t communicate with him. But it was frustrating – John had been back on active duty for _days_ and Sherlock rarely saw him. The few times he had caught glimpses of the other Captain revealed him to be exhausted, often leaning heavily on his partner. Sherlock had tried to explain to Aerial Command that John should be taken off duty but they were having none of it – a resource as vital as a Winchester could not be grounded at the moment, they just didn’t have the dragonpower to spare. When Sherlock had complained that he was perhaps the most vital asset of all and _he_ was grounded he was given blank looks and clipped, sort answers.

“I’m afraid that just isn’t going to be possible at the moment, Captain Holmes. Captain Holmes – the, er…the other one, that is, is currently on an important mission for the crown. As such-”

The man broke off as some kind of commotion broke out in the hallway, with much shouting and exclamations. Sherlock scowled heavily at the door – the whole reason he’d made the journey from the covert was to get some peace from all the inane chatter and bustle, and because the covert just wasn’t the same any more. Sherlock had become…lonely. He had never been _lonely_ in his life, preferring his own or Libertas’s company to that of others. And yet he found himself longing for someone other than Libertas, who often had no choice but to take interest in what he did, to explain his experiments to. Someone who wasn’t totally _stupid,_ who despite not being able to match Sherlock’s level of intellect could still follow what he was saying.

“What the bloody hell is going on out there?!”

Sherlock watched with little interest as the man, whose name Sherlock had already deleted, strode towards the door and threw it open…to reveal a dust-covered and travel-worn John Watson.

“John?”

Sherlock stared, wondering what a messenger like John was doing at Aerial Command. He was on light duties that still involved him running messages between the covert and the nearest Aerial Corps post, some twenty miles from here. He looked to be out of breath, a look in his eyes that was so akin to panic that Sherlock had no choice but to stare. John had been a solider – and a good one at that – and it had been Sherlock’s belief that there was nothing John would see in the Corps that could faze him. And yet John was clearly shocked, his hands shaking slightly as he stared at Sherlock in horror.

“Captain Holmes! I-I had no idea that you were here but – I saw Libertas and there is no one else who could-”

Sherlock frowned, reaching behind him for the cup of tea he had been avoiding and thrusting it into John’s hands, pulling him into a chair before he fell. Clearly there was something very, very wrong and it was imperative that Sherlock find out what it was. John, clearly realising from Sherlock’s attitude that he wasn’t about to press him for answers but nevertheless needed to know what had happened, took in deep breath and let it out shakily, before fixing Sherlock with a look akin to pity.

“I-we were flying a message down to near Dover – we’re steadily building up to longer runs again – when we saw it. A French formation, perhaps seven or eight dragons, in combat with perhaps thee of ours. The Corps dragons were able to fend them off but…”

Sherlock stared at John’s face, deducing what he was about to say and yet refusing to accept it, his lips forming the word before he was even aware of thinking it.

“Mycroft.”

If a French formation had broken through then there could only be one reason – Mycroft had been absent or wounded during the confrontation, distracting Regina to such an extent that she was unable to function properly.

“The last time I saw Regina she was barely being held up by a pair of middleweights – I didn’t have the chance to look for Captain Holmes. The French formation was wounded but still functional – they could be miles away from here by now. Sherlock, we need a heavyweight who can support Regina to bring her to the covert where she can get medical attention – for herself and her crew as well.”

Sherlock realised that John was automatically slipping back into solider-mode, presuming to give orders to a higher-ranking Captain and not thinking anything of it. For Sherlock’s part, he cared little about the illusion of rank – ever since he had deduced what John had come to say a dark pit of fear had settled in his stomach. When he was younger, before he had been Called, he had lived every day in fear that Mycroft would be shot down. When Sherlock was nine, Mycroft had been injured and had taken weeks to recover – it still gave Sherlock nightmares. Despite his over-protective ways, Mycroft was the only family that Sherlock had left – to imagine a world without him in it was unbearable. Even if John had ordered him not to go, Sherlock would have moved heaven and earth to get to Regina anyway.

“Where?”

Sherlock didn’t bother with anything else, helping John to his feet and following him out of Aerial Command to where Libertas and Hermes were waiting, the former watching him with concerned eyes. Libertas was aware of how much regard Sherlock held for his brother and had often counselled him to be more patient with him, assuring him that Mycroft was only preventing Sherlock from flying against Napoleon because he couldn’t bear to see him hurt. Sherlock had scoffed at the notion – until now. He knew he would gladly ground Mycroft for the rest of his life, regardless of his wishes, if it meant keeping him safe.

 “North – about thirty miles. They made it some way before the middleweights began to tire. Regina’s in a bad way, Sherlock.”

If that was supposed to be a warning or some small attempt to comfort him Sherlock didn’t know, so he merely flashed John a neutral look and ordered his crew to board, turning to Trevor and informing him solemnly to ready weapons.

“As far as we know, the French formation could still be out there. If they attack us, we must be ready to respond in kind – we will make them rue the day they tried to down one of our own on British soil.”

~~~*~~~

_33 miles North of London, England – 19 th December 1804, 3:45pm_

“There!”

Sherlock turned to where Hermes was circling ahead, the faster dragon scouting the skies for signs of the wounded Regal Copper. Almost as soon as Sherlock heard Trevor shout out he saw the shadow of Regina, barely able to flap her wings, her weight resting on a pair of Yellow Reapers. They were flying so low that their claws were scratching the ground and they looked exhausted, red droplets of blood flowing from the Regal Copper’s side and onto the dragons supporting her. As Sherlock and Libertas got closer he could see frantic movement on Regina’s harness, the crew clearly frantically trying to stop the bleeding whilst at the same time attend to the wounded.

“Trevor, signal them to try and gain some altitude. If we circle around and manage to come up underneath her we may be able to take some of the weight!”

Libertas circled around and came up behind Regina, Sherlock leaning forwards in the harness and watching anxiously as the exhausted Yellow Reapers heroically tried to lift the much heavier dragon further from the ground. John and Hermes circled overhead, keeping an eye out for the French formation in case they decided to return and try to finish the job they had already started. Hermes tucked in his wings and carefully drew level with Regina, John shouting something to her crew that Sherlock wouldn’t possibly hope to hear over the wind. His attention was distracted when he saw their chance, carefully manoeuvring Libertas into a position where she could take most of Regina’s weight.

 The Yellow Reapers ceased their efforts, exhausted, causing the majority of the Regal Copper to come crashing down onto Libertas, Regina’s belly resting on the portion of Libertas’s spine not covered in harness. Regina, in her pain and confusion, raked her claws down Libertas’s spine, causing her to list violently to one side. Another claw raked across the harness next  to Sherlock and severed the strap keeping him firmly onto Libertas’s back, causing him to sway briefly in the saddle before falling. He yelled out in shock as he was thrown from the harness, hands scrabbling frantically for a foothold as Trevor cried out and lunged for his hand. He ended up dangling to the side of Libertas’s face, legs flailing wildly as the ground rushed below him, clutching frantically at one of Victor’s hands.

“Sherlock!”

Libertas’s voice carried over the wind and he looked to see her crane her neck to try and see him, one great eye rolling in panic. Sherlock knew that if he fell, Libertas would try and catch him. In doing so she would cause Regina to fall to the ground, in all likelihood killing many of the crew and the Regal Copper in the process. His brother was on that dragon – probably wounded, maybe even dead – and Sherlock had become attached to Regina from an early age – when he was ten she had allowed him onto her back and often told him stories of the adventures she and Mycroft had gotten up to. To lose her would be like losing family – every member of her crew was loyal to Mycroft, had served under him for years. He could not allow Libertas to kill them all in a foolish attempt to save him.

“Libertas! If I fall, _do not_ attempt to follow me, is that clear!?”

Sherlock yelled, reaching with his other hand to try and grab a hold of Victor’s sleeve or coat – anything to gain some purchase. He was dimly aware of Hermes trying to get close enough to help him, but knew it would be impossible. The air-currents caused by the frantic beating of Libertas’s wings, as well as the two Yellow Reapers who were still bravely attempting to help, would prevent the small dragon from getting close. Sherlock knew he was too close to the ground for John to be able to catch him – even with the speed of a Winchester it would be impossible.

“Sherlock, no! I can’t – I _won’t_ let you fall!”

Sherlock felt a surge of despair run through him – there was no changing Libertas’s mind and she would willingly sacrifice Regina and her crew to keep him safe. It wasn’t because she was bloodthirsty or cruel – it was simply the fact that, to a dragon, their Captain was the most important thing in the world to them and nothing – not even a friend or the lives of many others – would convince them to turn aside whilst their Aviator fell.

Just as Sherlock felt he couldn’t hold on any longer, his arm aching and his grip slipping, Victor surged forwards and grabbed him with both hands, pulling desperately, and managed to get Sherlock onto Libertas’s back. Trevor attached another strap around Sherlock’s waist, his hands shaking badly whilst he told Sherlock off in a voice which was thick with emotion. Sherlock, for his part, was so relieved that for a moment he just fell back and laughed, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. Then he looked up at the labouring sides of his brother’s partner, their usual deep red stained with rivets of even darker blood, and his laughter died. Sherlock knew that his brother must either be seriously hurt or dead – for there was no way he would allow Regina to come to such harm if he were able to do anything about it.

“How long until we can land?”

Sherlock snapped at Victor, running a shaking hand through his hair and breathing out a sign of relief as Libertas, clearly satisfied that Sherlock wasn’t in any immediate danger, returned to trying her best to support Regina. She was almost as large as the Regal Copper but was half her weight and was already struggling, panting heavily as the Yellow Reapers barely managed to support any weight at all – it was a miracle they had made it as far as they had.

“Ideally we have to get her back to the covert – her crew signalled over that Captain Holmes is in a bad way and needs the medical expertise there – do you think we’ll make it?”

Sherlock glanced down at Libertas, who turned her head slightly and nodded, clearly as anxious about Regina as Sherlock was about Mycroft.

“Oh, we’ll make it, Victor.”

Sherlock said it like a promise, turning his eyes back towards Regina, almost as if he could pierce through the layers separating him from his brother. What he didn’t say was that there was a large chance that they wouldn’t make it in time to save the only human being besides his mother he had ever cared about.

~~~*~~~

John

Captain John Watson had seen many men die before his eyes. His friends, his enemies, people he respected and people he didn’t. And yet seeing them all fade away into the final goodnight hadn’t affected him anywhere near as much as watching Sherlock fall from the harness had. One moment he had been calling out orders to his crew as Regina settled onto Libertas, the next he was gone. One of Sherlock’s crew grabbed one of his hands before he could fall to the ground and John yelled out to Hermes.

“Sherlock, Hermes! Get to Sherlock, now!”

It soon became apparent, however, that Hermes couldn’t even get close to where Sherlock was precariously dangling. Every time the Winchester came near the gusts of air from the Celestial’s wings caused him to reel backwards. John yelled in frustration, his heart in his throat as he watched Sherlock argue with Libertas, trying to convince the Celestial not to try and catch him if he fell. Despite what John realised that would mean for Regina, he found himself strangely happy when Libertas refused to abandon her partner to death. Just as it looked like Sherlock was going to go plummeting to his death – and probably taking Regina with him – the crew member who was grasping onto Sherlock’s hand unstrapped himself in order to pull Sherlock up. John found himself impressed with the other man’s nerve and grinned in relief as Sherlock was safely strapped in.

However, now that Sherlock was safe John turned his attention back to the wounded Regal Copper. He remembered what he had seen earlier when he had hailed her crew – several people lying motionless as many more ran around as best they could whilst wounded, and Mycroft, surrounded by officers trying to stem the bleeding from vicious gouges all along his left side from face to hip. John realised grimly that even though Regina was stable if her Captain died then all of this would be for nothing – she wouldn’t consent to another Captain for years, if ever, and Britain couldn’t afford to lose her now.

If they didn’t reach the covert soon then John feared Sherlock would do something drastic and stupid. The other Aviator, usually so calm and unruffled, was clearly frantic, casting worried looks up at Regina almost constantly. John had been aware of the rivalry that had existed between the Holmes brothers but hadn’t stopped to consider the deep feelings of concern and protection that it hid. They buried their feelings under a masquerade of one-upmanship, each one trying not to let the other know how much they cared. And now Sherlock was faced with the possibility of losing a figure who had always been super-human and untouchable to him and he was taking it badly.

John realised with a sudden flash of understanding that it wouldn’t just be Britain that would suffer if Mycroft died – Sherlock would be devastated. And that, John realised, was unacceptable.

“Hermes, how fast do you think you could get to the covert?”

John shouted, circling around and coming up level with the wounded Regal Copper, who was barely conscious and yet still craned her neck to keep an eye on Mycroft, blood covering one eye as she growled in distress.

“As fast as you need me to.”

John pursed his lips in thought, eyes flickering over Mycroft, who was looking paler and paler by the second, making a decision after a few seconds of agonised thought. Moving Mycroft could kill him – John had seen enough wounds in his time, both as a doctor and a soldier, to know that, but waiting and watching him die before his eyes wasn’t an option any longer.

“Let me take him!”

John begged, talking more to Regina than any of her crew. For a long moment the great dragon didn’t say anything, staring at John before turning her eyes back to her companion.

“No. He’ll die – I can feel his pain!”

She growled, shaking her head and causing great droplets of blood to fly out, letting out an agonised whine as Mycroft moaned in agony.

“Please! He’ll die if you _don’t_. At least let me try – I promise that I’ll get him to the covert, Hermes is his only chance.”

Regina fixed John with a lethal glare, her good eye filled with agony and fear. To be parted from her Captain at a time when they were both so badly injured was agonising for her – to allow his safety to be placed into the hands of a complete stranger was worse. Then she looked down to where Libertas was labouring to keep her in the air, Sherlock’s face merely a blob from so far away, but John imagined he could see his fear from here.

“Fine.”

It was so quiet that John thought he had imagined it, but as Hermes drew nearer he realised Mycroft’s crew were making some attempt to get him into a better position for a transfer. They had managed to place bandages over most of the gashes, although they were already stained red with blood, and Mycroft was making some attempt to help although he was clearly as weak as a kitten.

“But if he dies, Captain John Watson, you shall wish you had never been born.”

John ignored the threat, realising that in her pain and concern for her partner it was hardly surprising there was little she wouldn’t do to keep Mycroft safe – and she was now trusting John with that safety. If he failed her then he deserved everything she would do to him. Getting Mycroft onto Hermes was an unpleasant affair and John was honestly relieved when the other Aviator fainted, even if it did mean that Regina almost attacked Hermes in her panic to protect her partner. With Mycroft held protectively in his arms, Hermes spun around and streaked across the sky, flying a fast as he dared with Mycroft so vulnerable to turbulence. As they got closer and closer to the covert John attempted to do some damage control on the wounds, trying desperately to forget that this was Sherlock’s _brother_ who was bleeding out underneath his hands. As they circled to land there was only one thought on John’s mind: Whoever had hurt Mycroft was a dead man.

~~~*~~~

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 20 th December 1804, 6:20am_

“He’s resting now, but stable. He isn’t out of danger yet but we’ve managed to close most of the wounds and, barring infection, he should be fine.”

John watched Sherlock nod once, his expression unchanging as the covert doctor gave them the news. If he hadn’t seen Sherlock almost frantic with panic on-board Libertas he would had said that the other man didn’t care – but he _had_ seen it and realised that a lack of visible emotion didn’t necessarily equal a lack of care. Ever since Sherlock had landed with a bleeding Regina in tow, the covert had been thrown into chaos. Doctors had been summoned and whilst Mycroft was in surgery Regina was patched up and given something to put her into a drug-induced sleep, her worry such that she had been unable to rest even though she desperately needed it.

Sherlock spoke quietly to Mycroft’s First Lieutenant, whose name John had forgotten, who nodded tersely and ducked out, clearly off to tell Regina that Mycroft was unconscious still but stable. John had gotten a good look at the gashes before they had taken Mycroft into surgery and was honestly surprised the Aviator was still alive – clearly the Holmes brothers were made of tougher stuff than he had first thought. The Regal Copper Captain had clearly been raked down the side by an enemy dragon, perhaps one who was tangling with Regina and had almost bled to death before the skilled covert doctors could see to him.

“He’ll be alright, you know. Mycroft, I mean.”

John cleared his throat, making an attempt to comfort Sherlock, who was only staring blankly at his brother’s door, marching towards it despite the doctor’s attempts to tell him otherwise.

“What? Yes, I know. Of course he will.”

Sherlock muttered, seemingly irritated by John’s comment. John would almost have believed it if he hadn’t seen the way Sherlock had harangued the doctor for hours, desperately trying to find out anything he could about his brother’s condition. Now, as they entered into the set of rooms kept in the mansion which served as a sick-bay of sorts, John found his eyes drawn to Sherlock’s face as he stared blankly down at his brother, who lay still and unmoving beneath the pale-white of the sheets.

“They’re still in our skies. The people who did this – they’re free to fly around as they please, taking out Aviators by sheer force of numbers.”

Sherlock’s eyes were roving over his brother as he spoke, clearly deducing everything he could about the way in which his brother was hurt. As he did so his eyes took on a hard, flinty edge, a look John had seen many times before – in the mirror.

“They cannot be allowed to continue, John. I-they have to be stopped.”

John wondered what Sherlock was expecting him to say – he supposed he should try and talk Sherlock out of what was undoubtedly going to be a reckless mission to avenge his brother, but found himself strangely unwilling to do so. Instead, a thrum of adrenaline went up his spine and he found himself reaching out and clasping one of Sherlock’s hands in his – the hand which was bruised from where he’d almost fallen from the skies.

"Yes. Yes they do.”

He grinned as Sherlock turned to face him, icy eyes flickering over John’s face as he tried to understand if John was going to stop him or not. He must had realised that John had no intention of preventing him from flying out to face the French formation and answered with a grin of his own, looking feral and slightly inhuman. John felt his mouth go dry as he stared into Sherlock’s eyes for slightly longer than was considered to be polite, clearing his throat as the other man smirked wickedly.

“I think, Captain Watson, that it is time to go hunting.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY that this update has taken so long - I started back at Uni much sooner than expected and as you can imagine that swamped me for a while! I intend to update every weekend from now on, as that is when I have the most time.  
> So, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please comment or leave kudos - if there is anything you want to see next time, let me know!  
> Just a few points for this chapter:
> 
> 1\. The concept of 'Re-calling' is from the original books. When a dragon's partner has died, they often mourn for years before accepting another Aviator and sometimes this never happens. They are much more likely to tolerate a rider who was related to their previous companion as they would have a shared grief. 
> 
> 2\. This leads on to my next point - the main reason losing Mycroft would be so disastrous to Britain, on top of losing a heavyweight at the Channel, is because he has no children and so it would be unlikely that Regina would choose another Aviator for some time, effectively removing her from the war. As Britain is in such desperate need of dragons, heavyweights being particularly rare, this could well have tipped the scales of the entire war.
> 
> 3\. This chapter isn't proof-read yet, but it will be by tomorrow - I just wanted to get this up for you guys. Any mistakes are totally mine and will (hopefully) be fixed by tomorrow :)
> 
> I think that's it for this chapter - as always please feel free to put forwards any comments or concerns, your opinions always matter to me and I am always happy to hear them.
> 
> EDIT: Now proof-read. So. Many. Mistakes! :)


	6. Flower of the Night

_Loch Laggan covert, Scotland – 24 th December 1804, 1:20pm_

Sherlock

“So you actually have permission from Aerial Command this time? The only reason I ask is because after that fiasco in Spain…”

Sherlock sighed heavily and fixed his second-in-command with a baleful look. Really, Victor was much more suspicious than he had any right to be. Sherlock hadn’t gone off like a loose cannon in _years_ – honestly, it was unfair of Victor to even _mention_ Spain. Sherlock had been considerably younger and stupider than he was now – and considerably more eager to prove himself. He had disobeyed orders whilst on patrol in Spain and ended up getting two of his formation seriously hurt. He hadn’t flown again in battle until Egypt.

“Really, Lieutenant, always so suspicious. I not only have permission from Aerial Command – I have _orders_ from Aerial Command. With Mycr-Captain Holmes out of action the Channel is vulnerable. Captain Hooper has been dispatched to relieve Captain Lestrade which means we are the only complete formation left in Britain – it has to be us. We have been tasked with hunting down the French formation last seen South-West of London and taking it out.”

Sherlock tried to speak as clearly and precisely as possible, aware that for all his assets Trevor wasn’t the brightest of Aviators. Not only that, but Sherlock had noticed Victor and his ilk were as antagonistic towards John as ever – more so since Mycroft had been taken down and Sherlock had nearly fallen from Libertas. Victor was convinced that if it had been him on board Hermes then the incident would never have occurred – which was of course ridiculous, but now was not the time to start a fight with his second-in-command. He needed Victor and the rest of his crew to be on his side, now more than ever.

“Well I suppose we’ll manage – although without Captain’s Anderson and Hooper we’re going to be stretched a little thinly.”

Victor didn’t sound happy – and Sherlock could hardly blame him. Although Anderson and Molly had only joined them for training – and in Anderson’s case for recovery – even before that point Sherlock had seen big changes in his formation. His lightweights had slowly been drafted into the messenger branch of the Corps and his middleweights, who made up the main bulk of his formation, were constantly changing around as those who were fresh were sent to the Channel or further afield. His formation now consisted of Sebastian and Jim, both of whom rode mid-weight Reapers with a full crew on each. Then there were the pair of Anglewings that had recently returned from the Channel – one from Mycroft’s formation and one from the Home Office. Sherlock didn’t care to know the names of either the Aviators or their partners, although he had been assured they were competent. Finally there was his small contingent of lightweights, two Greylings and a Grey Copper on leave from the messenger branch, as well as the two heavyweights who would flank Libertas, another Parnassian similar to Anderson’s and a Chequered Nettle. Sherlock had worked with both heavyweights before although he left the politics to Victor and couldn’t prevent the flash of concern that flared up within him. Usually a formation had five or six – sometimes more – lightweight combat dragons who served as snipers, messengers, medical relief and a means of bulking up the numbers in general. Usually with one or two Aviators on board, armed with rifles, the small dragons would harass the enemy, take down individual Aviators or bravely ram the larger dragons to try and damage their vulnerable wings or underbellies. Sherlock only had three, none of which he had worked with before and he could see Trevor was fretting about it too.

“We’ll have an additional lightweight, remember.”

Sherlock added, watching intently as the gears turned in Victor’s head and he worked out what Sherlock meant. A look on intense dislike passed over his face and he grimaced, still clearly resentful that John had been chosen over himself – or Hawthorne.

“You can’t be serious, Sherlock, he-”

“He is a better man than you give him credit for. He is a crack shot with a gun or rifle, handy with a sword and is a trained doctor. When you also factor in that he is currently partnered with the fastest dragon in the Corps I find it hard to believe you allow your personal feelings to cloud your judgement – w _e need him_ , Victor. God knows we need every dragon we can get right now. The French formation is causing mayhem right now in the South and could well circle around to attack the Channel blockade if we aren’t careful. Reports suggest they have three heavyweights and at least five mid-weights. They outnumber us, Victor, two-to-one.”

It was hardly a new development for the Corps, the French usually outnumbered their dragons in every skirmish. The difference was that this time the enemy formation had broken through and was on their home ground – and Sherlock intended to make they pay for that. In order to do so he needed John Watson flying beside him, found himself strangely eager to see the young Winchester in battle – because this time Sherlock would not allow either of them to come to harm. He’d like to see a Pou-de-Ciel try and toss Hermes out of the sky when Libertas was nearby – she would probably break its neck.

“Even if he is included in our formation, that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Sherlock sighed at his Lieutenant, resisting the urge to tell him that John was nothing like the mean-spirited figure that Hawthorne had painted him as – it would only cause trouble between Trevor and himself – and yet his natural instinct was to defend the Winchester Captain. Sherlock, for reasons he didn’t care to think about, found himself strangely calmer knowing that John would be flying by his side. One lightweight had hardly been known to tip the balance of power in a formation but stranger things had happened – and Sherlock hadn’t been exaggerating when he had said Hermes was the fastest dragon in the Corps.

 There had never been many Winchesters to begin with and a natural decline over the last couple of decades, followed by the war with France, had decimated their numbers. It was this steady decrease in the breed which had led to John facing such strong antagonism from the other Aviators – Winchesters had once been used primarily in formation, one of Britain’s deadliest assets. They had been relegated to messenger duty due to their rarity in the hopes of bolstering their numbers – as they Called principally younger Captains this had never been an issue. Until John Watson. It seemed that the Winchester was going to take its place amongst the formations once again.

“You don’t have to _like_ it, Lieutenant, you just have to follow my orders and ensure the crew is ready to fly by tomorrow – come hell or high water, we are ending this game of hide-and-seek.”

Sherlock snapped, aware that he was being less patient with Victor than usual – they had long since progressed from addressing each other as ‘Lieutenant Trevor’ and ‘Captain Holmes’ – but equally aware that there was a good reason for it. Over the months that John and he had been acquainted he had grown…fond…of the ex-Army Captain and his brave partner. John hadn’t been chased out of room 221B because of Sherlock’s experiments – he had barely blinked when he’d retuned from training one afternoon to be confronted by a noxious purple gas – he seemed to be genuinely fond of Libertas and for reasons Sherlock couldn’t understand he seemed to enjoy their company. None of the other Aviators ever had – even Mycroft only spent time with them out of some sense of familial duty.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked up to see Libertas and Hermes swoop overhead, the smaller dragon flying circles around his partner. Libertas didn’t seem to mind, turning gracefully to land first, ensuring the Winchester was well clear before she hit the ground. Hermes coiled around to land in her wake, snapping his jaws playfully at her wing as he did so. Although it was clearly an action made it jest it made Sherlock think how vulnerable Libertas was to a dragon like Hermes – his speed meant that her bulk meant nothing if he managed to attack a vulnerable area.

“I was just showing Hermes some of the typical movements of the formation – so that he’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

Libertas explained, with a warning look to Sherlock as she did so. There was no way that Hermes could learn all the nuances of formation fighting in a few hours – it took dragons, particularly lightweights, weeks to master the complicated and repetitive drills and that was from the egg. Although Hermes was unique – other than Libertas – in the fact that he seemed to be able to continue to learn even now, months after his hatching, it was too much to ask that he memorise the complex and difficult manoeuvres. Tomorrow, Hermes and John would just have to free-fly around the formation, picking off targets when and where they could. Sherlock also suspected they could act as a kind of flying medic unit – although John wasn’t enlisted in the medical branch of the Corps he was more than qualified.

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock asked in lieu of a reply, glancing around as if he was going to leap out from somewhere. Whilst at base Hermes was rarely seen without John at least shadowing him, so attached had the Aviator become to his charge. Sherlock suspected it was partly due to the fact that John had left everything he had known behind in order to answer Hermes’s Call – and it wasn’t as if he had any support structure within the Corps, largely due to Aviators like Victor. Sherlock suddenly remembered the presence of his second, who was standing by his side and gazing at Hermes, a look of such wistfulness and envy that Sherlock stared. There were times when he forgot the predicament that many Aviators existed in – the structure of the Corps being that individuals were often limited as to how far they could advance. For Aviators like Victor, the chance of advancement was pretty much nil – when they were young, dragons such as Hermes would be unattractive prospects for most Aviators, being as they provided no crew to manage and little chance of glory, but as the years rolled by most grew desperate to hear the Call. There were times when Sherlock realised that he had nothing in common with those Aviators – he had never known that crushing sense of loss.

“Hello?”

Sherlock looked up at Hermes’ tone, noting the slightly uneasy look he was giving Victor as the other man continued to stare and yet not say a word. Sherlock’s previous enquiry about John went unanswered as Victor seemed to brighten slightly, looking at Hermes with a look that could only be described as calculating. Sherlock ground his teeth together as he deduced the meaning of that look – rare as it was, not all Calls resulted in a permanent partnership. Dragons usually had an innate ability to Call to someone who would join with them to form two halves of a perfect whole, but they had been known on occasion to get it wrong. Sometimes an individual was so unwilling to go into harness, or was killed in action or wounded to such an extent that they couldn’t fly, that another partner was needed. In those cases Aviators usually contested furiously for the dragon’s attention – that was unless plans had already been made for another Captain. It had been known for dragons to be swayed into taking another Captain by jealous or well-meaning Aviators – there were some Captains who treated their partners as little more than animals – and Sherlock suspected Victor intended to exploit this occurrence, rare though it was.

Before Sherlock could put a stop to the matter – it would naturally prove unfruitful and would only serve to anger Hermes greatly – John appeared at his partner’s side, placing one hand on his partner’s purple flank, glaring slightly at Sherlock as he did so.

“Sherlock Holmes, just the man I was hoping to see. Can you explain why the entire contents of my personal correspondence trunk has gone green? And if you dare say an experiment I’m afraid I’ll have to take issue with you; there are some boundaries which-Hello.”

John stopped berating Sherlock – it was obviously an experiment, surely John could _see_ that – when he noticed Victor’s presence at his side. As far as Sherlock was aware the pair had never met face-to-face, although John was surely aware of the antagonism directed his way. Victor was glaring opening at Sherlock’s – friend? Colleague? – and shifting protectively towards Libertas, who was looking at her second curiously. Libertas had always been fond of her crew, particularly those who had been with her for a long time and it was true that Victor was behaving very out-of-character – usually he was genial and polite to a fault. It seemed that his relationship with Hawthorne as well as his current employment prospects were affecting his judgement.

“Hello.”

His Lieutenant replied stiffly, nodding icily before turning to Sherlock, dismissing John rudely as if he wasn’t even there, directing his greeting at Hermes more than at the blond Aviator.

“I take my leave, sir. There is a lot to prepare before tomorrow.”

With a final, stilted nod at Libertas Victor strode away, brushing past John on the way and making no attempt to disguise his dislike of the other man. John’s face had darkened and one hand had gone to the sword at his side – although technically duelling was forbidden in the Corps Sherlock doubted it would prevent John from reacting to a perceived slight – gazing after Victor with no small amount of discomfort.

“Most of them are like that. Why? What have I done to merit such dislike?”

John rounded on Sherlock, a note of such plaintive confusion in his tone that it stirred within Sherlock an answering feeling of long-forgotten loneliness. He knew exactly what it was like to be cast aside by those within the Aerial Corps – both because of Libertas’s Chinese origins and because of his own…eccentricities. When he had first joined the Corps he had at least had his crew to support him – most of them were delighted to be serving on board a heavyweight and eager for promotion and as such had been polite and accommodating. John had no such network to fall back on and Sherlock found himself wanting to reach out to the other man and say _it doesn’t matter, because you have me._ Before he had the chance to say anything however, Libertas spoke up.

“Ignore them, John. They are only jealous that Hermes not only Called you but that you have become such a fine Aviator – they’ll come around, in time. At least _you_ don’t have a stupid ruff and silly tendrils!”

She directed this at Hermes, who looked rather taken aback at her sudden change in topic. Sherlock sighed slightly and tried not to roll his eyes – not this argument _again._

“If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, Libertas. I _like_ the way you look, your ruff is-”

“Amazing.”

Sherlock looked up sharply as Hermes blurted out the word, dipping his head in embarrassment as Libertas turned her great head to stare at the small dragon. Sherlock smiled as Libertas cleared her throat and preened slightly, midnight-blue scales glinting as she did so.

“You think so? Really? I’ve always been rather embarrassed about them, to be honest – I’ve asked Sherlock but _honestly,_ he _would_ say it was comely, wouldn’t he? Are you sure the tendrils aren’t too…strange? I’ve never seen another dragon with them, so there isn’t really anything to compare them to…”

Hermes reared up on his hind legs and tentatively touched a tendril with his nose, causing Libertas to hum low in her throat. Feeling like he was spying on a private moment between the pair, Sherlock cleared his throat and wandered over to where John was staring at Hermes through narrowed eyes.

“Sherlock. I’ve just realised – Hermes likes Libertas.”

Sherlock shot John a look which he hoped conveyed his feelings clearly enough – John was a total idiot for not seeing that. Of _course_ Hermes liked Libertas – she allowed him to share her kills at times and often flew with him when he was at the covert. He told her stories of the places John had been on his military service and of the dangers he had faced whilst in harness. If he _didn’t_ like her it would have been dreadfully obvious by now – idiot.

“No. I mean he _likes_ Libertas, Sherlock. I mean, _really_ likes her, if you understand my meaning?”

John had gone bright red and looked dreadfully embarrassed, staring at Hermes like the little dragon had just let him down dreadfully. It only took a second for John’s meaning to pass over to Sherlock before he too shot his partner a disapproving look and sniffed disdainfully – now was really not a good time. Libertas had dallied with a few partners in the past, mostly during the first few years of her life, although she had never produced any eggs – upon doing research Sherlock had found that Celestials usually bred only with Imperials to produce viable offspring.

“Ah. Well. I daresay that Libertas knows what she’s doing…”

John stuttered, averting his gaze and staring pointedly at Sherlock, obviously determined to ignore the pair of dragons. Sherlock was aware that Hermes had been particularly troublesome during his maturity – John had been restless for days, pacing up and down 221B like Sherlock usually did. Hermes was nosing fondly at one of Libertas’s tendrils and growling low in his throat – clearly, they were enjoying one another’s company. Sherlock had deleted the time on their lives when Libertas had ‘discovered’ male dragons and felt a jolt of uncertainty as he felt the fondness that she felt for the Winchester flood through their bond. He remembered that other Aviators tended to avoid dragons of the opposite gender to their partner during the dragon’s maturity but had never cared to know why. Until now.

“I need to check my experiment with the ink, John.”

Sherlock remembered that he had decided it would be best to use John’s chest for the control – the fact which had bought John down here in the first place – and realised it would probably be best to leave before John remembered his previous ire. But as he turned to sweep away he realised John was staring somewhat helplessly at the pair of dragons, clearly at a loss of what to do or where to go. He didn’t usually spend enough time at the covert in order to become bored, but neither had he made any real friends within the Corps. In his own way, John was as alone as Sherlock was.

“You could always come, if you want to. I am going to see Mycroft anyway and…a second opinion is very important to me, John.”

John snapped out of whatever reverie he had been in and stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, clearly weighing up the benefits of staying around a pair of enamoured dragons or going into a possibly noxious flat. Decision made, John tugged his bottle-green uniform more tightly around him and strode to Sherlock’s side, falling into place beside him. It was only when they were halfway that John remembered what experiment Sherlock was talking about, causing Sherlock to let out an unconscious huff of laughter.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten my correspondence, you mad bastard. If it’s still green when we get back the next experiment will be on your hair!”

~~~*~~~

“This is happening, Mycroft, whether you want it or not.”

Sherlock stated, eyes flicking to where John was hovering uncertainly to his left. He had come up to visit his brother and had intended to stare politely at his sleeping face for a few moments before departing. However, his brother was awake – drowsy from painkillers and white from pain, but awake. He was being treated by a newly discovered painkiller – Morphine, the doctor had called it – and whilst John had nodded and had proceeded to have an in-depth conversation with the doctor, Sherlock had only cared that his brother was comfortable if not totally pain-free. He had made a mental note to look into the drug at a later date, but decided the experiment would have to the wait – it was newly discovered and was difficult to get hold of. They had clearly named it after the God of dreams and Sherlock could see why – Mycroft was drowsy and dazed, not his usual self at all.

“I am not arguing against you going, Sherlock, I am merely-”

Here Mycroft broke off, grimacing as he shifted in the sitting position he had insisted to be placed in when Sherlock had entered the room. A rush of noise past the window cast a shadow over the room, as did the hissing snarl that accompanied it and Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration. Regina had been irritable and irrational ever since she had woken to find Mycroft was not at her side. She had taken to flying past his window and peering in clumsily, roaring mournfully and generally making a nuisance of herself. She could feel Mycroft’s pain through their bond and it terrified her – she was convinced that he was dying and they weren’t telling her. Mycroft stared out of the window and shifted as if to rise, only to fall back with a gasp of pain.

“I am merely asking you to exercise _extreme_ caution. They will outnumber and outgun you, Sherlock. They have-”

Mycroft huffed out a breath of frustration, clenching his hand into a tight fist and growling in frustration.

“Damn this wound! They have a Fleur-de-Nuit, Sherlock. If night falls and the formation is still eluding you – land. Don’t try and fight them on their terms – we can’t risk injury to Libertas and you’ll get your entire formation killed.”

Sherlock looked into his brother’s eyes and saw the fear there – fear that Sherlock would get hurt, fear that Libertas would be injured or lost. Fear of the unknown.    

“No I won’t”

Sherlock insisted leaning close to his brother and letting him see by the look in his eyes that Sherlock was serious. There was no way that Sherlock would allow his formation to fall into disarray and death – especially as now there was someone flying beside him whom Sherlock…cared for. Over the last few days he had come to realise how much he had come to value John’s company – during flights, for the Work and just spending time with another human being – he knew Libertas valued the company of Hermes above all things. For the first time, Libertas and he had someone else other than one another to rely on and it was…good.

“I won’t allow them to come to harm, Mycroft.”

His brother stared hard at him for a long moment before nodding wearily and settling back into the bed, looking pale and more vulnerable than Sherlock had ever seen him. His brother had always been larger-than-life to him – invulnerable, especially when he harnessed the largest and most powerful dragon in the Corps. This incident had really hammered home that his brother was painfully vulnerable – even more so because Regina was targeted by French dragons in the hopes of taking her as a prize.

“Sherlock. I must ask for a favour – this letter. I want it sent to the Channel to Captain Lestrade.”

Sherlock smirked slightly and raised an eyebrow as he took the envelope from his brother – clearly quite the essay judging by the amount of paper contained within and obviously important as his brother had taken the time to write it out considering his condition. His brother blushed red, finally gaining some colour in his pale complexion.

“It-it is merely an update on Regina and I. It would be cruel not to inform him that we are on the way to recovery – we have worked so closely together for so long that I…worry, now that I am no longer there.”

Sherlock tried very hard not to look smug – the number of times his brother had warned him against getting emotionally attached and now he had gone and gotten ‘emotionally compromised’.

“It is not like that.”

Mycroft caught Sherlock smirking and scowled deeply, his face which had been as white as snow when Sherlock had first come in was bright red and he looked distinctly uncomfortable. It wasn’t unusual for members of the Aerial Corps to become involved with one another – they were distrusted by most members of the general populace and treated with cool respect by the other branches of Britain’s military. There often weren’t many options for Aviators who wanted to start a relationship, or a family, or ensure that their partner would be provided for after they were gone. Most coverts were placed far away from civilisation, due to the secretive and sometimes dangerous nature of caring for draconic partners and as such relationships between Aviators of the same gender was…not commonplace, but certainly ignored when it did occur.

 Mycroft and Lestrade had been dancing around each other for years – especially after the death of Lestrade’s wife, an Aviator of considerable skill and talent. He had been left to raise a young child – a girl named Hope – and when he and Mycroft had been sent to the Channel he had left her in the care of the Corps. Sherlock had been well aware of Mycroft’s feelings for Lestrade for some time – his brother held the other Regal Copper Captain in the highest regard. Not only that but Regina and Ignis had been a pair for many years, producing more Regal Copper eggs than any pairing previously. But Mycroft had held back for years, firstly because of Lestrade’s marriage and then his grief and now…now there was the possibility of more. Sherlock found himself pleased for his brother, who had been so alone for so long – but his brother had to understand that Sherlock needed to go his own way now. He couldn’t be tied down at the Covert any longer.

“I have a favour to ask in return. I am worried that my second, Lieutenant Victor Trevor, is going to make a nuisance out of himself…”

Here Sherlock shot John a look before leaning in closer to Mycroft, speaking softly so that his words were for his brother’s ears only.

“I fear he intends to try and entice Hermes away from John – he would mean well, for some strange reason he believes Hawthorne’s slurs on John’s character – but would only cause irritation and trouble for John and Hermes both. I cannot guarantee that John wouldn’t duel the man, should the insult prove great enough.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking over to John again as he went over the decision he had come to on the way here. As long as Victor remained Sherlock’s second, there would be conflict between him and John. Victor’s relationship with Hawthorne would prevent him from getting along with John and Sherlock couldn’t take the risk that he would do something rash and endanger not only himself but the entire crew.

“I want him transferred – perhaps to Captain Hooper, who I know is in need of a more experienced crew. I am loathe to lose him, Mycroft and this in no way reflects his ability as an Aviator, but there is…conflict, between him and John. One or the other is going to have to go and…I cannot lose John, Mycroft. I have come to rely on him too much to allow a feud between them to drive him away.”

Sherlock half turned away as he stared at the Winchester Captain, who was peering curiously out of the window at a clearly upset Regina. The next words he spoke were so quiet he was sure that Mycroft must have missed them, although that didn’t make them any less true or valid.

“I believe that Captain John Watson and I are going to form quite the partnership.”

~~~*~~~

_5 miles North of Plymouth – Christmas Day 1804, 9:45pm_

“Sherlock! We should land and seek shelter in Plymouth – it is madness to keep going in this, especially when we know they have a Fleur-de-Nuit!”

Victor yelled over the roar of the wind, rain lashing at his flying-goggles as the formation battled through the weather near Plymouth, hot on the heels of the French formation which had been eluding them for hours. They had raced down past London to the Southernmost point of Britain when the French formation had been sighted near the city, one of the main shipbuilding ports and a vital contributor to the war effort. They couldn’t take the risk that the French formation was hiding a far more deadly foe – a Flamme-de-Gloire – and there was no way to verify whether their intent was to put the port to the torch. Britain couldn’t afford to lose the port – and Sherlock intended to make sure that the French didn’t get within ten miles of the city.

“No, Victor. We can’t allow that formation to stay out there. Not when we can’t verify whether there is a Flamme-de-Gloire. We keep going!”

Sherlock yelled hoarsely, tracking the progress of the other members of his formation by sense more than sight as they flew through the night, eyes vainly trying to see into the encroaching blackness. A shadow swooped from his left and he turned to see John and Hermes cross their path, the small purple dragon blending almost as well into the darkness as his darker-toned ancestors had. His noticed that Libertas went out of her way slightly to brush her head slightly along Hermes’ wing in a fond caress. Sherlock smiled slightly, but couldn’t help feeling a thread of anxiety as Hermes disappeared out of his sight. They were so vulnerable , not protected  like Sherlock and Libertas – but John had understood the risks before coming here and Sherlock trusted him implicitly. Not only that but Libertas had turned to Sherlock before they had taken off, her eyes flinty and hard and had said: _If they come to harm, if another dragon seeks to take him out of the skies, then I shall unleash hell._

Sherlock hadn’t even tried to argue with her. They flew on through the weather, the cold encroaching to such an extend that Sherlock could feel it in his bones. Just when he was on the verge of giving the order to land, Victor shouted over the wind.

“Sherlock! Captain Watson is signalling…apparently he’s noticed something up ahead.”

There was barely any warning – one second Victor was squinting, trying to translate John’s frantic flag-signals, the next the sky was filled with dragons. Sherlock was dimly aware of the two mid-weight dragons and the heavyweights rallying around Libertas as the French formation swooped in, most of his attention focussed on his partner. Libertas coiled around, letting out a bellow of outrage and corkscrewing into a dive, clearly focused on something Sherlock hadn’t seen. They crashed into the side of a much smaller dragon who had been pursuing Hermes – Sherlock could make out of the figure of John, aiming through the barrel of the rifle he had been supplied with only yesterday.

Libertas raked her claws over the middleweight - a Pecheur-Couronne, Sherlock noticed, now that they were closer. The French were playing their usual trick of painting over the markings of the much more common breed in order to confuse them – this way there was no way to tell in the heat of battle whether or not a deadly Flamme-de-Gloire was hiding within the formation. The unfortunate French dragon roared in agony as Libertas snapped her teeth around its neck and although its crew tried to counter, Hermes swept by and John put a bullet into the head of its Captain, effectively rendering the dragon itself useless. Libertas crushed its neck, shaking her head and spraying blood in a crimson fountain before flinging it from the sky – Sherlock watched grimly as it and its crew plummeted to their deaths.

John gave them a quick salute before directing Hermes away to support Jim and Sebastian who were bravely taking on a Chanson-de-Guerre which was easily three times their size and weight. Sherlock directed Libertas to gain some height, well aware that it was up to them to try and take out larger and more troublesome dragons than the middleweight which had been bothering Hermes. Sherlock would usually have directed Libertas to ignore it in favour of one of the larger dragons, but was well aware that she would never have listened to him when the Winchester was in danger. Sherlock noticed a Fleur-de-Nuit slam into Insignis, effectively throwing the much smaller dragon totally off-balance. Sherlock noticed with anger that a couple of Sebastian’s crew members were thrown off the middleweight, narrowing his eyes as he directed Libertas towards the enemy.

It was time to show these dragons why the Celestials were so feared.

~~~*~~~

John

_10 miles North of Plymouth – Christmas Day 1804, 11:35pm_

John turned just in time to see Libertas roar with fury and smash into the middleweight which had been pursuing them, effectively crushing it’s neck and sending its crew into utter panic. Without thinking, John looked down the sight of the rifle he had been handed before taking off – a Brown Bess similar to those used in the Army – and put a bullet through the head of the dragon’s Captain, allowing Libertas to finish it off with ease. He thanked Sherlock with a polite salute, his attention caught by the snarling pair of British middleweights who were trying to tackle a much larger beast.

“Over there, Hermes!”

It was hardly necessary to let his partner know now what he intended to do now, so tuned in were they to one another, but John was well aware that unless he was firm Hermes would shadow Libertas the entire time – and they could much more good elsewhere right now. They made a swift pass on the heavyweight, John going through the motions of reloading automatically, hands shaking slightly as he dragged the powder from one of Hermes’s harness-bags. It took him seemingly ages to get the gun in a state where he could fire it again and by that time a positively gigantic French dragon had slammed into the side of one of the two Reapers who had been engaged with the other heavyweight.

Aware that Libertas was taking care of the Fleur-de-Nuit – even John recognised the large French breed – John joined the Yellow Reaper who was dodging desperately as the large heavyweight tried to take it out. John sighted down the rifle, aiming for the Captain, but missed and ended up taking down the second-in-command instead. Hermes curled around behind the enemy dragon and raked his claws down the belly of it as he spun upside-down underneath it. John grimaced as the blood rushed to his head, breathing out a sigh of relief as Hermes righted himself and coiled away from the snap of the enemy dragon’s jaws. By this point John had reloaded once more, spinning in the harness and aiming this time for the vulnerable area where the dragon’s wings met its shoulders. The large dragon growled in agony and faltered in the sky, losing altitude as the Yellow Reaper continued to harass it on the way. Finally the Captain realised he was fighting a losing battle and spun away pursued carefully by the British dragon.

Just as John was congratulating himself for a job well done an inhuman screech of rage sprang up from the Malachite Reaper which had been tackled by the Fleur-de-Nuit. John noticed the cause almost straight away – a Grey Copper swept past in pursuit of the French Fleur-de-Nuit which had shot a bullet at the British Captain. Given their deadly ability to hide in the darkness, he wouldn't even have seen it coming. John urged Hermes forwards and they came up next to the middleweight dragon, which was roaring in panic and trying to turn and look behind it. A quick glance showed that they had managed to break the French formation – probably because of the flash of Libertas’s Divine Wind that John could see in the distance. That was enough to scare away even the toughest of opponents.

“Let me see him!”

John called, gesturing for Hermes to fly very, _very_ straight and unbuckling himself from the harness, grabbing his emergency medical kit and preparing to leap onto the Reaper. It’s crew were gathered around a man who lay prostate on the floor of the harness, clearly panicking and unsure about what to do. John timed it as best he could and leapt, aware that Hermes was watching him like a hawk as he did so. He landed badly but thankfully was caught by the second-in-command, a good-looking woman who was nevertheless pale and desperate.

“The bullet went into his chest – he’s bleeding badly. I-I think he might be…”

John ignored her for the time being, pushing his way through to the athletic-looking Captain who was bleeding out onto the harness. John had seen enough bullet-wounds in his time to know when he was looking at a fatal one – and he was looking at one now. Nonetheless he swore and dropped to his knees, making as much of an attempt as he could to stem the bleeding, directing a pair of crew-members to ‘get his breathing going again for goodness sake’ but it was too late. The Captain was dead.

John turned to look through the darkness, spotting Libertas approaching from the left, a small collection of mid-and lightweight dragons escorting what was left of the French formation to the ground. He bowed his head for a moment, staring at his blood-stained hands before gently pulling away the crew-members who were still trying in vain to bring their Captain back.

“Signal to Captain Holmes that there has been a fatality.”

John said heavily to the signalman, who was crying openly along with most of the crew. The Reaper itself was barely flying, clearly in shock – John raised a hand towards Hermes to get his attention as they began to descend haphazardly. Hermes swooped around and tried to direct the Malachite Reaper’s descent and as they neared the ground John saw the broken forms of the dragons that had fallen alongside their partners. As he stared over the devastation and heard the Reaper roar out its grief, John realised the truly cruel nature of aerial warfare. When a Captain in the Navy lost his ship he was merely losing an object – a collection of wood and metal which could be replaced. When they lost their partners, they lost not only a friend but a life-partner.

 Shaken, John leapt from the back of the Malachite Reaper, who was now coiled protectively around the body of its Captain and allowing no one to get near, not even the other members of the crew. Aware that he was crying but refusing to be ashamed of the fact, John crossed straight over to where Hermes was standing next to Libertas, their tails intertwining. He buried his face in his friend’s scales, who shivered uneasily at John’s distress. He felt Hermes’s wings come around him in a kind of caress and gripped onto his neck tightly. For the first time he allowed himself to think of the truly dreadful possibility of facing a world without Hermes in it – and found it to be unbearable. He would rather die – and he was sure that right now the Malachite Reaper felt the same way.

“His name was Sebastian Moran.”

John turned in surprise to see Sherlock gently prising Hermes’s wing away from John, ignoring the Winchester’s growl as he did so. Libertas was staring mournfully at the stricken Reaper, who seemed inconsolable and had driven most of the crew, save for the second-in-command, away. Sherlock himself looked only mildly curious – if John didn’t know better he would have said he was barely affected at all by the loss of one of his formation.

“We lost one of the Grey Coppers as well – dragon and Captain both. This is the nature of this kind of warfare, John. You knew that going in.”

John stared in shock at Sherlock, who seemed glacial and as untouchable as ice. He genuinely didn’t seem to feel anything, his eyes like blocks of solid ice, staring dispassionately at the tears running down John’s face.

“It doesn’t make it any easier, Sherlock.”

John muttered lowly, turning fully to face the other Aviator, confused anger welling up inside of him. Sherlock flicked his eyes to Hermes, who had twined his head protectively around John as he felt his confusion through the bond – why the hell was Sherlock acting like this?

“You didn’t even know him. Why are _you_ upset?”

The question was pointed and curious, so devoid of emotion that it rubbed against something within John that was already raw from the night’s events. It was bitterly cold, the chill spreading through him until he shivered furiously, more angry at Sherlock than he probably had any right to be.

“Because he was one of us, Sherlock – an Aviator. I don’t see how anyone could possibly not feel anything when faced with such raw grief – does it…doesn’t it bother you at all? I mean, you’ve known him for years!”

John found his voice was rising, his hands clenched into fists as the other Aviator raised one eyebrow and crossed his arms, turning briefly to check on Libertas who was still looking at the Reaper mournfully.

“No. It doesn’t bother me – I have long since come to terms with the fact that _caring_ is not an advantage – sentiment is an emotion felt by the losing side. Does that surprise you, _doctor_?”

John stared blankly at Sherlock, shaking his head with a small huff of dark laughter. All this time – had Sherlock really felt this way the entire time? Had he spent time with John purely because of Libertas or had there been some scientific curiosity thrown in there as well – the oldest man ever to be Called as a Aviator and ex-Army to boot?

“No. No – it doesn’t surprise me, Sherlock.”

John kept his voice carefully blank, although Hermes was clearly feeling the backlash of his wild emotions because he growled softly and fixed Sherlock with a steely, reptilian glare.

“Now if you’ll excuse me there are people in need of my services.”

John still had the – utterly useless – medical kit clenched in one hand and although he felt Hermes close to his heels he didn’t turn around. If he saw Sherlock again now he would probably be unable to resist punching the man and the last thing he wanted was to cause trouble for Hermes. All he could think about was the fact that Sherlock didn’t care at all that an Aviator he had known for years had been shot and killed and he had felt _nothing._ If John were to take a bullet tomorrow, if he were to fly against the French and not return, would Sherlock be as candid about his demise? Would he stare at John with those eyes, cold as ice, feel nothing in the face of Hermes’ grief?

If John were to fade into the night, would Sherlock even bother to remember him?    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I owe most of you a HUGE apology. I know that there are people who have been waiting eagerly for this chapter and I can only apologise for taking as long as I have - anyone who works 12-hours shifts in emergency medicine will understand when I say that sometimes there simply aren't enough hours in the day.  
> Now that that's out of the way - I give you Chapter 6! I can't believe I'm this far in already, although I highly doubt it will end with this fic - thank you to everyone who has followed this fic so far :)  
> There are some points about this chapter, for those of you who are interested:
> 
> 1\. For those of you wondering about Mycroft and Lestrade, I hope this has answered your questions - although I won't be doing anything from their point of view in this fic I might do a separate one to explain their story as I feel it is one which needs some time spent on it.
> 
> 2\. Plymouth was a major ship-building port during the Napoleonic Wars, to such an extent that after the war was over the local economy almost totally collapsed. It took years for the city to recover from the loss of such a huge income, with many dockworkers being let go completely after the war was over. For those of you not aware, the city lies in the very South of England.
> 
> 3\. As mentioned previously the Brown Bess musket was used by the British Army during most of the 17th and well into the 18th centuries. It could fire around 3 shots per minute depending on the skill pf the person who was firing it. As mentioned in Chapter 1, as a Captain John would have used a pistol as opposed to a musket and as such would not be highly skilled in its use - which is why it took him so long to reload after firing. It would have been difficult anyway but taking into account the situation on-board a flying dragon it would have taken him some time.
> 
> 4\. Morphine was first discovered by the British as a painkiller in 1803. I took it that as one of the front-line institutions the Aerial Corps would probably have access to the newest drugs and medical advances far ahead of the Army or Navy. I should probably mention that this was oral morphine - the invention of hypodermic needles didn't occur until fifty years later. 
> 
> As always I value any comments or concerns anyone might have - I know I ended this one at quite a low-point for our heroes but fear not, I get a strange feeling Hermes and Libertas aren't going to stand for any nonsense! Please command and/or kudos and I certainly hope updating never takes this long again - I owe a special apology to kate, who I know was eager for this update. :)  
> Finally, is there a general feeling that this rating is appropriate for the fic so far? It will probably go up during later chapters but for now the level of physical violence should be alright for Teen+ readers. Please comment if you don't feel this is the case.


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